


Stronger

by carolroi (CarolROI)



Category: Phantom of the Opera (2004)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-21
Updated: 2016-10-15
Packaged: 2018-08-16 10:48:19
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 22
Words: 60,871
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8099275
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CarolROI/pseuds/carolroi
Summary: What if Christine's plea for Raoul to spare the Phantom's life at the cemetery came too late? An EC alternative to the 2004 movie.





	1. Blood In The Snow

**Author's Note:**

> An Andrew Lloyd Webber's Phantom of the Opera Fic
> 
> Featuring songs by Kristine W, James Horner & Will Jennings, Abigail
> 
> Words in italics are sung.

Christine sank to her knees at the foot of the steps leading up to her father's crypt. She bowed her head, blinking back the tears that threatened, feeling the cold damp of the snow-covered stone seep through her black velvet dress. Thoughts tumbled round and round in her head, faded memories of her long-dead father mixing and merging with sharp, vivid images of the Phantom. Why couldn't she get them out of her mind? What was the connection between them? Or was it all simply a lie, a convenience the Phantom had seized upon long ago, when his voice had first called to her, singing words of comfort, of love, as she had knelt in the opera house's tiny chapel, much as she knelt now, crying for her father? 

The soft, sweet strains of a violin began wafting through the cemetery. She looked up, puzzled, unable to pinpoint the direction of the sound, but recognizing the familiar melody. She only had time to think, "He's here," before his voice sent a shiver through her.

 _"Wandering child, so lost, so helpless, yearning for my guidance..."_ The words echoed round the graveyard, bouncing off the granite headstones, surrounding her, filling her soul, thrilling her to her core. At last, she would know the truth, here in the light of day, away from the eternal night of the opera house. Finally she would know if her Phantom was real, or the leftover figment of a child's imagination. 

_"Angel or father, friend or Phantom, who is it there, staring?"_ Christine answered, getting to her feet. _"Angel, oh speak, what endless longings echo in this whisper?"_

A light began to glow behind the doors of her father's crypt. _"Too long you've wandered in winter, far from my fathering gaze,"_ the Phantom called to her, the tenderness in his voice warming her. 

Fear fluttered in her stomach, but she had to know the truth. She began to ascend the steps, answering, _"Wildly my mind beats against you, yet the soul obeys...."_

As she neared the mausoleum, the doors began to slowly open, beckoning her inside as the Phantom's voice merged with hers. _"Angel of Music, I denied you, turning from true beauty...Angel of Music, my protector, come to me, strange angel...."_ He was inside; he had to be. In a moment, she would have her answer. 

The sound of hoofbeats registered in some far off part of her brain, but she couldn't turn around, fearing if she did, the music, and her Angel, would disappear. 

"No! Christine! Wait! Wait!" 

"Raoul!" Turning, Christine saw her fiancé jumping from the back of a horse at mid-gallop, drawing his sword as his feet touched the ground. 

"Whatever you may believe, this man...this thing...is not your father!" he cried, racing up the stairs toward her.

She stared at him in surprise. How did he find her? Why was he here? She looked back toward the crypt, her heart sinking as she saw the light no longer shone from within. The Phantom, where was he?

A great black shape appeared atop the mausoleum. A dark-winged angel, it swooped down upon them. Only as it landed did Christine discern the white half mask of the Phantom. As he flipped back his cape, she saw the silver gleam of the sword clutched in his hand. With a cry of rage, he swung at Raoul. The Vicomte deflected the blow with his own weapon though the Phantom's strength drove him back, forcing him to jump from the crypt to the cemetery grounds. 

Raoul stumbled as he landed, and Christine gasped. But he was on his feet in an instant, his blade ringing as it met the Phantom's. The fight moved away from the mausoleum, and Christine ran to follow them, wanting to scream, to call out for them to stop, but for once her voice failed her. Shocked at the Phantom's sudden and violent appearance, Christine was stunned into silence by the terrible realization that they were fighting over her. 

The Phantom followed a broad sweep of his cape with his rapier, slashing Raoul across the shoulder. Blood stained the snow atop one of the graves as he fell, but Raoul arose swinging, catching the Phantom's blade with his own. Using both hands to bear his sword down, he drove the Phantom to his knees and the sword from his grasp. The Phantom scrambled after it, but Raoul kicked the weapon away as he reversed his grip on his own sword in preparation for the killing blow.

Christine suddenly found her voice. "No! Raoul!" But her words came too late to stop the downward thrust. Eyes wide in horror, she could only watch as the blade descended, the Phantom giving a guttural cry as the sword pierced his flesh. She felt as though the weapon had penetrated her own heart, stopping it, the air suddenly gone from her lungs. Calling out "Angel!", Christine dashed toward him, dropping to her knees beside the fallen Phantom. 

For a moment, she thought he was dead, but then a groan escaped his lips, and she caught a glimpse of his jade green eyes under half-closed lids. Tearing off her scarf, Christine pressed it against the wound, noting with some small relief that he must have been moving when Raoul had struck, as the sword had penetrated his side, not his heart. Still, the injury bled copiously, quickly soaking the thin scarf, his blood hot on her hands. 

Christine looked up at Raoul. He held his bloodstained sword in a loose grip, fury fading from his eyes and his expression changing to one of revulsion in the realization of what he had done. She had to call his name several times before he responded. "Raoul! Please! You must ride for help. Hurry!" 

Waking from his trance, her fiancé nodded, wiping a trembling hand over his face before running to the patiently waiting steed he had arrived on. Clambering up on the animal's back, he wheeled the horse around and set his heels into its sides. The stallion sprang into a gallop.

As the hoofbeats faded in the distance, Christine and her Angel were finally alone in the midst of the silently falling snowflakes. She continued to apply pressure to his wound, unsure if her meager assistance was of any help, but she couldn't sit by and do nothing, not when her friend's life was at stake. 

Her friend-invisible, unseen, but always there whenever she had needed him. His had been the soft voice in the darkness, singing her to sleep, comforting her when childish taunts had sent her running for the sanctuary of the chapel and her loving Angel. When had she forgotten that? The moment Raoul had appeared at the opera house? Was that the reason her Angel had finally chosen to reveal himself to her, because he sensed she would forget all about him with Raoul in her life again?

The memories of that night were hazy, like a half-remembered dream-a boat ride on a mist-shrouded lake, two voices entwining as one; a fantastic grotto alight with the glow from a hundred candles; his music, his beautiful song filling her heart, giving her soul wings; the terrible crash of his anger, the face beneath the mask an image worthy of a nightmare. It had been real. He had been real. She knew that in her heart. Why had she ever allowed Raoul to convince her otherwise? Why had she denied it? Why had she denied her Angel?

"Christine..."

A tear slipped from the corner of his eye and down the uncovered side of his face. Instinctively she reached up to brush it away, but the sight of her crimson stained fingers stopped her. Instead she leaned over him, pressing her cheek to his. "I'm sorry," she whispered, "I'm so sorry, Angel."

"Christine...I love you..."

She pulled back enough to meet his eyes, almost drowning in the mix of emotions she saw reflected there. Pain, and fear, but most of all...love. His love for her shone more brightly than the sun, the moon and stars combined; her breath caught in her throat at the sight of it. The fear faded away the longer she looked, replaced by a calm acceptance. She realized he could die now in a snow-covered graveyard happily, joyously, as long as she was at his side. His eyes began to close. 

Tears spilled down Christine's face. How could she have been so blind? "No! Angel, you are not going to die here. Promise me, swear to me!" 

His eyelids fluttered. "What?" 

"Swear to me you will not die here!" 

Confusion evident in his expression, he still did as she asked. "I swear I will not die here, Christine, though I think there is little either of us can do to stop it."

Christine's thoughts were racing, pulling up every memory of every visit she had made to her father's grave. There was a surgeon's nearby; the sign on the house was vivid in her mind. "The carriage! Where did you leave the carriage?" She knew now he had been in the driver's seat that morning. 

"Back gate," he managed as Christine helped him to a sitting position, then put his arm around her shoulders. 

"Get up," she commanded. With her aid, he made it to his feet, though the uncovered side of his face was as white as his mask when he had done so. Slowly, they made their way around her father's mausoleum and between the headstones, her Angel leaning heavily on her, clutching her scarf to his injury. She looked back only once at the crimson trail they left behind, then she turned her eyes toward the far gate, where she could glimpse the matched pair of blacks through the cemetery fence. 

"Just a little further," Christine encouraged him. His reply was a grunt of pain, but his footsteps never faltered. Upon reaching the entrance, she propped him against the iron bars of the fence while she pulled the heavy gate open. Turning back around, she found him on his hands and knees in the snow.

"Angel!" Grasping him by the arm, she attempted to lift him back up.

"It's no use, Christine," he rasped. "I have no more strength..."

Kneeling in front of him, she cupped his cheek in her hand, no long caring that she marked him in blood. "Angel, please try, I beg of you. Don't leave me all alone."

"You won't be alone. You'll have your precious Raoul." Even at a whisper, the Phantom made the Vicomte's name sound like a curse.

"Raoul is not my Angel of Music, the man who's been my one true companion all these years. It is you I cannot bear the thought of living without." 

The Phantom stared at her for a long moment, as if her words had revealed to him a new world, one he had never before considered within his grasp. An expression of fierce determination came over his face, and he placed his hand in hers. Seizing both his hand and arm, Christine again levered them upright.

Once through the gate, she half-dragged, half-lifted him into the open carriage, settling her Angel in the seat directly behind the driver's perch. Hiking up her skirt nearly to her waist, Christine scrambled up front, picking up the reins and crying "Hyah!" The horses broke into a trot, then a gallop as she urged them forward through the snow that was now falling thick and fast.

Reaching back with one hand, Christine found her Angel's shoulder, feeling him press his head against her hip. "It's not far," she yelled to him over the clatter of hooves and the rumble of the wheels on the cobblestones.

His hand came up to cover her own, his fingers tightening around hers. The small gesture gave her hope. 

Slapping the reins against the horses' backs, she yelled at them once again, the carriage surging ahead through the gray light of dawn.

* * *

Every jolt of the carriage was another knife in his side, turning his vision red, stealing the breath from his chest. It was a good sign, he told himself. Better he should suffer and know he was still alive, than to realize by misery's absence he was dying. He leaned his cheek against Christine's skirt, the feel of the velvet caressing his skin a sharp contrast to the pain pulsing through him with every beat of his heart. 

He had only wanted to be alone with her, to try to explain, to tell her he loved her. He had gone to the Bal Masqué the night before out of anger, at Firmin and André, at the boy for stealing Christine away from him, at Christine for allowing it. But when he had stood on the steps in the main lobby, his sword in hand, feeling the terror his mere presence caused in those poor, ignorant sheep, his temper was assuaged. 

And then there was Christine, a vision in the palest pink, a perfect rosebud among the weeds. He couldn't help himself, couldn't stop staring, his heart racing, his breath ragged from the mere sight of her. She had been affected by it too; he could see it in her eyes. She felt the connection between them. She was drawn up the stairs toward him, as he couldn't help but descend to her. Then he had seen the ring, known what it meant, known its foul presence around her neck was one more loss he had suffered to his vile rival. And yet, when he had torn it from her, he had discovered that the fact that she wore it on a chain, and not on her finger, gave him hope. She had accepted the Vicomte's ring, but not him, not completely. A part of her still cared for her Angel of Music. 

It had been that part of her he had wanted to reach that morning. A trip with her alone, away from the opera house, away from the boy, it had seemed perfect. Too perfect in hindsight, yet he had accomplished more than he had ever dared hope for. He might die for his foolishness in confronting the boy, but he could die knowing Christine cared for him, truly cared, which was more than he had dreamed of having in his lifetime. 

He felt her hand come to rest on his shoulder, and he reached up to take it, squeezing her fingers, letting her know he wasn't going to give up. Then he closed his eyes, gritted his teeth, and tried to remain conscious. It wasn't easy, and by the time he felt the carriage come to a halt, he had somehow become detached from the pain, from any kind of sensation at all, truth be told. The thought crossed his mind that probably was an ominous portent.

In the distance, he could hear Christine calling for help, the slamming of doors, footsteps coming toward him. Hands grasped him under the arms and by the legs. Awareness came back in the form of agony shooting through every nerve in his body as he was lifted from the carriage and transported inside a building. He might have screamed. His vision faded in and out, blurred by what he realized were his own tears.

The hands holding him lifted him up onto a table and then blessedly left him. Again he heard Christine's voice, shaking, frightened, but speaking of him with affection, with pride, as her friend, her teacher. Then her hand was on his cheek-he would know her touch anywhere-and she was talking to him, asking him to open his eyes. He succeeded in doing so, though it seemed to take a very long time from the thought until he was actually gazing up at her. 

She was crying. He didn't want her to be crying. "Christine..." 

"Angel, remember your promise...please don't leave me," she whispered. 

"I promise," he managed, then her fingers were gently lifting his mask, and a second one was placed over his nose and mouth. The new mask smelled strangely and for a moment he felt fear. Then darkness descended upon him, and he no longer felt anything at all.


	2. Compassion

Hands pushed Christine none too gently from the room then the surgery door closed behind her. She stood there in the hallway of the physician's house, uncertain of where to go, or what to do, overcome by a great weariness. A plump older woman with round cheeks and wearing the uniform of a servant appeared from a doorway at the end of the hall. 

"This way, Madame," she said. Christine looked around, wondering whom she could be talking to. Approaching her, the housekeeper took Christine's arm and gently led her into the kitchen. Walking her across the room to the sink, she said, "Let's get you cleaned up, Madame. You've had a terrible shock." 

Cleaned up? As the woman began to run water into the sink from the pump, Christine automatically stuck her hands under the stream. Handed a bar of soap, she began to scrub, watching the white lather turn pink, the water a faint crimson as it swirled down the drain. The blood, she had forgotten about the blood. So much of it…on her hands, the sleeves of her dress…his blood…her Angel's blood….

She staggered back from the sink, suddenly unable to breathe. Spots flared in front of her eyes and dizziness washed over her. The housekeeper took her arm again, guiding her to a chair. Christine sat, bowing her head over the kitchen's table, burying her face in her arms. 

"Here, Madame, drink this." Christine looked up to see the woman holding a glass out to her. She took it from her, swallowing quickly before she had time to think about its contents. The whiskey scorched the back of her throat, the fumes burning her sinuses. Choking and gasping, but no longer feeling faint, she set the glass down on the tabletop before she dropped it. She wiped at her watering eyes with the back of her hand, and the servant quickly handed her a handkerchief. "I know you must be very worried about your husband, Madame, but Dr. Jarred is the best surgeon in all of Paris, if not France. He studied under Dr. Lister in Glasgow." 

The woman said the name as if being taught by Dr. Lister were a great honor, which Christine probably supposed it was, but she knew nothing of illness or injury save her own minor mishaps. Strained muscles and aching feet she knew how to treat but…there had been so much blood…. She studied her hands, finding traces of it still under her nails, and the tears began to flow again. "Please, God, I can't lose him, I can't," she whispered. 

"Your husband's in good hands, Madame. Please, don't worry until the doctor says you have a reason to." 

Using the handkerchief to dry her eyes, Christine said quietly, "It's Mademoiselle. He—we aren't married."

"Fiancé then, or lovers? Surely he must be very important to you judging by how you speak of him."

Christine ran her hand over her face, both irritated by the woman's prying yet needing desperately to talk to someone about her Angel. "He is my best friend, my mentor, my teacher." The housekeeper set a glass of milk in front of her, along with a plate holding a slice of homemade bread slathered with what appeared to be butter and strawberry preserves. Though the food looked tempting, her stomach still churned from the whiskey, and her worry. "He's the most important person in my life," she finally whispered. "And I have cruelly abused him. He has loved me and cared for me for ten years, and I have betrayed him by promising my hand to another." She closed her eyes against new tears. If she had not betrayed her Angel, he would not now be lying in the other room fighting for his life.

"Ah, well, I can see why you're so upset. Come, Mademoiselle, eat something, keep your strength up. The bread is fresh, made it myself this morning. Once you have some food in you, things will look brighter."

"Perhaps, Madame." She suddenly remembered the horses and carriage she had left in front of the surgery. "My horses—"

The other woman peered out the window over the sink. "Jean has taken them to the stable. He's a good lad. He will make sure they are well cared for until you are ready to leave."

"Thank you." Christine brushed away the last of her tears and picked up a slice of bread. The woman was right; she had best eat something. When her Angel was out of surgery, he would have need of her strength.

* * *

Raoul stood impatiently by his horse, watching as the gendarmes searched the cemetery. There was no sign of Christine or the Phantom, save for his sword, lying in the same place Raoul had thrown it. Riding for the police and back had taken nearly two hours, and in that time the still falling snow had covered any footprints they might have left behind. One of the gendarmes approached him, the Phantom's sword in hand. 

"I'm sorry, Vicomte. This is all we could find." 

"So you're just giving up? This maniac has my fiancée and you're going to do nothing?" Raoul had to mentally restrain himself from drawing his sword. 

"There is nothing to do, Vicomte, not without evidence that this man, this opera ghost even exists. The traffic on the main road has destroyed any clue as to which way their carriage went."

Clenching his fists so hard he could feel his nails cutting in to his palms, he said as calmly as he could, "The Phantom was injured. I ran him through with my sword. Do you think there might possibly be some value in asking any physicians in the area if they've treated anyone with such a wound?"

The policeman shrugged then spoke to him in the patronizing tone one used with the slow-witted or the mentally ill. "He might not have been seriously wounded. If he had been, he would not have been able to force Mademoiselle Daaé to go with him. She is capable of running away from him, is she not?"

Closing his eyes, Raoul counted silently to ten, then twenty. They all thought he was insane, and who was he to contradict them? If he had not lived through it, he would find it hard to believe the tale of being attacked by a masked and cloaked man in a graveyard of all places. Nothing he could say was going to convince this man that Christine was in danger, or that there even was a Phantom. He had had a difficult enough time convincing the police that he was the Vicomte de Chagny, though he supposed he didn't blame them. He must have been quite a sight riding up to the police post bareback on a carriage horse, sweating, out of breath and bleeding. Hardly the image of a Vicomte. "Yes, she is quite capable," Raoul finally answered, though he did not voice his greatest fear, that Christine might not want to escape from her Angel of Music.

"Well, then, she'll turn up. Or else she'll have run off with him. Happens you know. Actresses are fickle creatures." The gendarme handed him the Phantom's sword. "Guess I'll let you have this. Since you're the only one who's ever seen this opera ghost, you can return it to him." 

"Thanks, I'll be sure and do that," Raoul snapped at the retreating man's back, furious at being made a mockery of. "Right through the heart, where I should have put my sword the first time," he added under his breath. Tying up his horse, he walked over to where he could still make out the bloodstain beneath the snow where the Phantom had lain. Working outward from that spot slowly, he spied one drop of blood, and then another, finally following the trail to the back gate of the graveyard. There the blood was pooled again, under a thin layer of snow. They must have stopped here for a few minutes, he thought. The lack of any footprints besides his own again showed him the incompetence of the police.

"I know I wounded him badly, I know it!" he hissed. "Damn the police, damn that monster!" The bells from the nearby church began to toll the quarter hour as he stood there. Almost noon. He could spend the rest of the day and night hunting for a physician who might have treated the Phantom. He was cold, tired, and wounded himself. A more efficient and more profitable use of his time might be to return to the Opera Populaire and question Madame Giry again. She still knew more than she was telling, of that he was certain. 

The Phantom would return to his home with Christine. And God willing, with Madame Giry's help, he would give that creature a welcome he would never forget.

* * *

Christine rolled her head on her neck and stretched her back. The housekeeper had shown her to a rather comfortable parlor in which to await the doctor's news, but she had chosen instead to wait on a bench in the hallway just outside the surgery. In her head, she knew her Angel would neither know nor care where she waited, but it made her feel better the closer she was to him. 

The tall clock at the end of the hallway chimed twelve times. Was it that late? Had it really been almost six hours since she had sneaked down the stairs from the ballet dormitory that morning? Oh, to have that time back, but with the knowledge of how badly it was to end. What would she have done, knowing it was the Phantom driving that carriage, knowing how much he loved her? 

At that moment, the door to the surgery opened, and Dr. Jarred appeared. "Ah, there you are, Madame–"

"Mademoiselle Daaé," she explained again. "He is my teacher, not my husband."

"Forgive me, Mademoiselle." The surgeon sat down on the bench next to her. He was a tall man, with a closely trimmed beard and jet black hair. "As you know, your teacher was stabbed with some sort of knife–"

"Sword," Christine corrected. "We were attacked at my father's grave. It was a sword."

"A sword, that explains much. Your teacher was unarmed, yes?" 

She bit her lip, feeling the blood drain from her face. "Yes. I thought he had been killed. But Rau—our attacker missed his heart. Please, sir, does he live?"

The doctor nodded, a small smile curling up the corners of his mouth. "He lives, and barring infection, he should for a good many years to come." 

Clamping a hand over her mouth to muffle her cry of joy, Christine felt tears burning her eyes. "May I see him?"

"In a few minutes. I just wanted to ask you some questions about your friend, about his disfigurement. Is it a birth defect, do you know? I have seen similar cases, but never a person so ingenious as to create such a work of art to hide it." He held out the white mask to her. 

Christine took it reverently, her fingertips tracing over the soft leather. "I think he has lived with it all his life, though we have never spoken of it." 

"Does it cause him pain?" 

She looked up into the physician's eyes, seeing only an intellectual curiosity mingled with genuine concern. Christine placed her hand over her heart. "It pains him greatly here. The world has not treated him kindly." She took the doctor's hand in both of hers, bowing slightly. "I wish to thank you for your compassion in his treatment. I don't know what I would do if I lost him."

"You're welcome. He should be moved into the recovery room by now. Let me take you to him." Rising, he led her down the hallway and through several doors. "I think it best he remain here for several days, until I'm sure there's no chance that the wound will turn septic. He also lost a large amount of blood. He will be very weak for a while."

Shaking her head slowly, Christine answered, "I don't know if he will agree to that. And the longer we remain here, the greater the chance the person who attacked us will find us. He would not want to put you and your household in any danger by his presence."

"Mademoiselle, I will not turn an injured man out onto the street, no matter who is after him," Dr. Jarred said. Christine felt a rush of relief at his words. Opening another door, he ushered Christine into a room. 

Her Angel lay in a low bed, naked from the waist up save for a large white bandage around his stomach, a blanket covering the rest of him. He was very pale, making the reddened skin of his deformity even brighter against the white of the sheets. She immediately went to him, ignoring the chair beside the bed and kneeling on the floor next to her Angel. 

"He'll probably sleep for a few more hours. If you need anything, just ring the bell." He pointed to a bell pull hanging next to the bed. "Please have someone alert me when he wakes." 

"I will," she promised then the doctor left the two of them alone. Arranging her skirts so she was as comfortable as possible on the floor, Christine took the Phantom's hand in her own, lifting it so she could press her cheek against the back of his fingers. His skin was warm and smooth against hers, and she closed her eyes at the sensation. 

"Oh, Angel, I'm so sorry, so sorry. I should have been stronger. I should have believed what my heart was telling me all along, that you were real, that you finally came for me as I dreamed you would for so many years. How could I not know, Angel? Why did I need to feel your blood on my hands before I believed? How could I have hurt you so much?" She kissed his knuckles tenderly then laid her head down on the mattress, giving in to her tears.

* * *

Pain…a dull, crimson flame licking at his side, constant, like the lap of the ocean against the shore. It pricked at his curiosity, this long forgotten sensation. His last memory of a hurt this deep and unrelenting came from many years ago, a time before the opera house, before…Christine! The events came rushing back to him. The cemetery…Raoul…Christine…dying. Only he thought death should feel less painful than this.

With an effort, the Phantom forced his eyes to open. Unfamiliar surroundings met his blurred gaze. Blinking a few times brought things into focus but made them no more recognizable. He was in a small room, plain, empty save for the bed in which he lay and a small side table and chair. Gray light from a long narrow window illuminated the room. Through the glass he could see snow falling. 

His heart began to race as he realized his mask was gone. He shuddered, blind panic overwhelming him as he tried to push back the childhood nightmares of being caged, trapped, a prisoner of someone else's whim. He started to move, his first instinct to run, to hide, but the sharp flare of agony in his side stole both his breath and his vision for several long moments. When the pain settled back down to a dull throbbing, the Phantom opened his eyes again. 

This time his mind was clear enough to realize he was not alone. Christine sat on the floor next to his bed, resting her head on her folded arm atop the mattress. Her eyes were closed though the Phantom could make out the dried tracks of tears on her cheeks. Slowly, he lifted his hand, moving it to rest gently against her head. Her hair was the finest silk against his palm, and he gave in to the temptation to burrow his fingers into her thick curls. A swell of love for her rose in his chest so great he thought his heart might burst from it. "Oh, Christine…" he whispered. 

He had thought it had been a dream, but she had saved him, forced him to the carriage when he had had neither the strength nor the will to move, driven him to a physician, made sure he was cared for. He had always thought it was Christine who had need of his care, his guidance. How strange, how wonderful that it appeared the truth was the other way round, that it was he who desperately needed her. 

She stirred under his hand, her head coming up and her eyes opening. She caught his hand as he disentangled it from her hair, holding onto it. "Angel, you're awake."

Leaning over him, she kissed his cheek—his scarred and deformed cheek. A lump rose in his throat and he had to blink back tears. He looked up at her again and the expression of absolute joy in her eyes was nearly his undoing. When he finally felt he could speak without his voice shaking, he asked, "Where are we?"

"Dr. Jarred's surgery. He saved your life."

He shifted in the bed, taking another look around the room. "Where are my clothes, Christine? We can't stay here."

"Angel, please, you nearly died. Please, just rest for now. I know Raoul is probably looking for us, but we are safe at the moment." Rising, she reached for the bell pull on the wall. "Dr. Jarred needs to examine you now that you're awake." 

The rush of fear washed over him again. Christine seeing him without his mask was bad enough, but other people were more than he could bear. "Christine, where is my mask?" he snapped, his tone harsher than he intended it to be.

She turned toward him, her eyes meeting his. Ashamed now, the Phantom dropped his gaze, only raising it again when she placed his mask in his hand. He settled it in place, his churning emotions calming. The look Christine gave him was speculative, as if she almost understood. When she spoke, he knew she did.

"I promise you are safe here, Angel. Dr. Jarred is a good and compassionate man. He sees you as I do, a person, a man with a soul. And if he did think otherwise, I would be quick to disabuse him of that notion." Her eyes flashed dangerously then, and the Phantom felt the beginning of a smile on his lips. Perhaps it was he who needed to change his mindset. 

A knock sounded on the door and at Christine's "Come in," the surgeon entered. He introduced himself and then pulled the chair over next to the bed. "Mademoiselle, I'll have to ask you to wait in the hallway," he said to Christine. 

She looked at the Phantom. Again, it was as if she could see his every thought, his hidden fears. Reaching down, she took his hand. "No," she answered. "My place is with my Angel." 

The doctor raised a questioning eyebrow, his gaze going to the Phantom. When he did not protest, Dr. Jarred replied, "Very well." He proceeded to examine the Phantom, checking his temperature, taking his pulse, and inspecting the incision. "How is the pain?"

The Phantom wasn't quite sure how to respond, his experiences with illness and injury few and far between because of his self-imposed isolation. Finally, he answered, "Bearable if I lie still, but any movement causes pain." His gaze went to Christine. "I don't know how much Christine has told you, but it is dangerous for us to stay here. We need to leave as soon as we can. This…pain hinders that."

"I can give you morphine to relieve the pain, but your condition is serious. The blood you lost has weakened you severely. I do not recommend leaving here for several days, if not longer." 

The Phantom started to argue, but Christine squeezed his hand. "Angel, please, let him give you something for the pain. It would be best if we left under the cover of darkness, would it not? We could both use the time to rest." 

And to plan. They would need a plan to deal with the boy. "All right," he replied, and suffered the indignity of having a hypodermic needle plunged into his hip. The doctor left shortly after that, with a promise to have his housekeeper send them some food.

Once the physician was gone, the Phantom removed his mask, the feel of the leather against his skin one more irritation than he could stand. He wanted to talk to Christine, but the drug made him tired. Despite his best efforts, his eyes closed and refused to open again. The last thing he heard was Christine's voice whispering, "Sleep, my Angel. I'll be right here when you awaken."


	3. A Confrontation and A Plan

Raoul felt the stares following him as he entered the opera house from the stable. The whispers were harder to ignore. _…Where is Christine…The Phantom has her…the Phantom's taken her!_ Crossing the stage, he grabbed one of the chorus members milling about by the arm. "Madame Giry, where is she?" The frightened girl pointed in the direction of the rehearsal hall. 

When Raoul entered, Madame Giry was putting the younger dancers through their paces, her cane thumping out the rhythm on the floor. Meg was the first to catch sight of him, stopping so suddenly mid step that the other dancers crashed into her. "Meg!" her mother snapped. "Pay attention!" Following her daughter's line of sight, she turned to face Raoul.

Taking in his disheveled appearance and the blood on his shirt, she told the dancers to continue without her. She crossed the room to Raoul, Meg on her heels. "Vicomte, what's happened?"

"Where's Christine?" Meg blurted out.

Raoul shook his head. "I don't know. The stableman told me when I asked him just now that someone knocked him out this morning and took his place. It had to be the Phantom. I followed them to the graveyard." 

Madame Giry frowned, taking Raoul by the arm and dragging him into her office, Meg following. "Shut the door, Meg. I don't want the other girls to hear this." Crossing the room to a cabinet, she opened it and took out a medicine chest. "Sit down, Vicomte, and take off your shirt." 

Swallowing uneasily, he looked back and forth between Meg and her mother then did as he was told. Tut-tutting under her breath, Madame Giry began to clean the cut on Raoul's arm. "Now what is this about the Phantom and Christine?"

Wincing, as Madame Giry's ministrations were anything but tender, Raoul related his flight to the cemetery, the Phantom's appearance, and Raoul's defeat of him. Meg gave a little cry, and Madame Giry looked up sharply at him at the mention of the Phantom being injured. "How badly was he hurt?"

"I don't know. I thought for certain he was dying, but when I returned to the cemetery with the gendarmes, he and Christine were gone." 

Madame Giry took a step back, her hand going to her mouth, tears sparkling in her eyes. Meg took over tending Raoul's wound. "Oh, Monsieur, what have you done?" Madame Giry whispered.

"What have I done? What have I done? That madman has Christine. You must know where he's taken her. You have to tell me!" He leapt to his feet, grasping Madame Giry by the shoulders. "You know where he lives! Why won't you help me?"

"Let my mother go!" Meg yelled, yanking on his injured arm. 

Crying out in pain, Raoul released Madame Giry and rounded on Meg, intent on shoving her away from him. The fear in her eyes made him realize he was losing control of the situation and himself. He took a step back, breathing heavily. "I'm sorry," he apologized, "but you have to realize Christine's in danger. The Phantom has killed more than once, Madame. How can you be sure his next victim will not be Christine?"

Madame Giry straightened, wiping at her eyes. "Because, Vicomte, he loves her more than his own life. She has been his reason for living these past ten years. Do you think he does not feel, that he cannot love as you and I do because of his deformity? He loves more deeply than we can ever comprehend, deep enough to kill for her, deep enough to die for her. And if he is somewhere dying of the wounds you caused him, then I thank the Lord that Christine is with him. For she loves him just as deeply, though your return to her life has kept her from seeing the truth inside her own heart." 

"No! I don't believe you!" he wanted to shout, but instead he sat back down in the chair. Meg picked up a roll of bandage and wrapped his arm. "Christine loves me," he finally said, his voice sounding small and uncertain even to his ears. "We are engaged to be married." Meg tied off the bandage and handed his shirt to him. 

Raoul pulled it over his head then got to his feet. "You will not help me?"

Madame Giry shook her head. "I've caused enough damage, Monsieur. If the Phantom is dead, then his secrets should die with him. Christine will return unharmed, you will see. But I will not help you cause either of them any more pain." 

Exhaling slowly, Raoul realized that was all he was going to get from the woman. It was obvious to him that she felt a responsibility toward the Phantom that was almost maternal. "I'm going home," he said finally. "Can I trust to you send word when Christine returns?" 

She hesitated for a moment then nodded. 

"Thank you." With that, Raoul left the opera house, his heart troubled by Madame Giry's words. Christine loved him, would never choose that monster over him, he told himself. And yet…he recalled the fear in her voice as she had rushed to the Phantom's side at the cemetery. One didn't fear the death of a person one hates.

* * *

When the Phantom awoke again, the sky outside the window was dark, and the gas lamps in the small room were lit. Someone had brought in a rather large armchair and placed it next to the bed. Christine was curled up in it, asleep, a blanket over her. 

Rolling carefully onto his uninjured side, he lay watching her, trying to make sense of everything that had happened that day, of how he had come from the edge of defeat to being so blessed. Every time he looked at her, here beside him, he felt overwhelmed, terrified and delirious with joy at the same time. For over twenty years, the Phantom's entire life had been first the opera house, then the opera house and Christine. Now everything was in a state of confusion, and he was coming to realize there was no going back to the way things were. Not with the Vicomte after him. 

Christine shifted in the chair, her eyes opening. She smiled at him. "How long have you been watching me?"

"Years…You're beautiful, Christine, " he sighed. Her eyes widened, and the Phantom realized his slip of the tongue. 

Christine's cheeks colored and she spent several moments straightening her dress and running her fingers through her tangled hair. "Nonsense," she finally replied. "I must look a mess." Rising, she moved to his side, helping him sit up, rearranging the pillows until he was comfortable. Picking up the pitcher from the bedside table, she poured a glass of water. Seating herself carefully on the edge of the bed, Christine held out the water to him. "Here, Dr. Jarred says you need to drink plenty of water while you're recuperating."

Wincing slightly as the movement tugged at his injured side, the Phantom reached out to take the glass and found he barely had the strength to hold it. Christine wrapped her fingers around his, supporting the cup as he drank. Neither of them commented on his weakness when he was through, but he could see in her eyes that it frightened her as deeply as it did him. 

Keeping hold of his hand, she set the empty glass aside. Raising their clasped hands, she kissed the back of his fingers, her eyes holding his gaze, telling him without words that she was with him, whatever may come. "I'm going to get us something to eat. I'll be right back." Getting to her feet, she left the room.

When she returned, she carried a tray piled high with food. At his quizzical look, she said, "I know. The housekeeper must think I'm too thin. She keeps putting food in front of me every time she sees me." 

Christine set the tray down on the table. "For me, much too much. For you, clear broth, doctor's orders." She picked up a mug from the tray. "I thought this would be easier than struggling with a spoon." She held it out to him.

The Phantom wanted to scream, to rage at the indignity of it, at how helpless, how powerless he felt, but he didn't have the strength. He simply took the steaming mug from her, clenching his fingers tightly round the handle, using his other hand to steady it. 

She laid her small hands over his in support. "It is I who should be taking care of you, Christine," he said, his voice hoarse with emotion.

"I'm quite certain you will have plenty of opportunities to do so in the future. But for now, make use of my strength, Angel." 

He took a sip of the broth, finding the temperature bearable. Chicken, he thought, with rosemary and tarragon; rather good, actually. Once his cup was empty, he leaned back against the pillows, watching Christine eat. When she finished, she set her plate aside then moved from the chair to the floor next to him. 

"What now, Angel?" she asked. "Do we try to return to the Opera Populaire tonight?" 

Nodding, the Phantom said, "Better we wait until the small hours of the morning, when most of the opera house is asleep." He shifted his position and grimaced, his side beginning to ache again as the morphine wore off.

Seeing his distress, Christine took his hand, squeezing his fingers reassuringly. He gave her a smile and was delighted when she returned it. "That's the first time I've ever seen you smile," she told him softly. "You have a beautiful smile." 

Her comment took his breath away. "Beautiful" was not a word he had ever associated with himself. It touched him deeply and made him uncomfortable at the same time. He changed the subject. "Tell me of the Vicomte, Christine. You've spent the past three months getting to know him intimately." He couldn't keep the venom out of his voice, and was ashamed at the small frisson of pleasure he felt at her hurt expression. "What would be his reaction to our disappearance?"

"I assume he is trying to find us," she answered quietly, not meeting his gaze. Letting go of her hand, the Phantom touched her under the chin, turning her face toward him. "I'm sorry, Angel," she whispered, tears glistening in her eyes. 

Tracing his fingers over Christine's cheek, he shook his head. "No, my words were harsh and my tone unwarranted." 

"Perhaps…but I have still hurt you. I realize now that you finally revealed yourself to me because you feared losing me to Raoul. Until now, I never stopped to think how brave you must have been, not knowing if I would accept or reject you, probably feeling in your heart that I would fear you or ridicule you as so many others have done. I lived up to your worst expectations of me." 

Her tears were hot against his fingertips. "Christine, no. You are here now; you gave me a reason to continue living; you commanded it. You could have left me here and returned to the boy, yet you stay. I need to forget the mistakes of the past on both our parts, and enjoy the fact that we are together now." 

"I promise you I will not leave you," she said solemnly. "I swear it." Her oath made him regret his moment of cruelty even more. She was the only one who had ever cared for him and instead of welcoming her affection, he had tried to push her away with unkind words. The Phantom knew he did not deserve such fealty, but if he did not accept it, he would wound her again. So he simply looked at her, unable to trust his tongue, his fingers stroking her cheek gently.

Rising, Christine sat down on the edge of the bed. "May I ask you a question?"

"Of course, Christine." 

"Last night, after…after you left the ball, and Raoul followed you, he talked with Madame Giry. He told me what she said, that as a child you were part of a traveling fair, kept in a cage and beaten. Is it true?"

The Phantom inhaled sharply; that was a secret he had hoped she would never learn. "It was a long time ago. It doesn't matter now." He was that weak and pitiful child no longer.

"Of course it matters," Christine replied gently, laying her hand on his chest. "You still bear the scars upon your heart." 

He covered her hand with his own, gripping it tightly, wondering how it was that with those few words she managed to bare his very soul. Tears began to slide down his face, and he was helpless to stop them.

* * *

Christine stared at the Phantom, horrified. Despite her promises and best intentions, she had wronged him again. "Oh, Angel… _what kind of life have you known…."_ She touched his face tenderly. His gaze met hers, his eyes dark and pleading. _All the sadness of the world…_ She leaned in closer, brushing her cheek against his, sliding her hand behind his neck, trying awkwardly to comfort him. 

Slowly, hesitantly, he put his arms around her, gently pulling her to him. She tightened her grip on him, feeling him shudder against her. His breathing was rapid and harsh in her ear, his tears a burning trickle on her neck. It dawned on her that this might be the first time he had ever been held, the first time he had been touched in kindness, in love. The thought upset her so much she found herself crying, for him, for them, for all the years he had hidden himself from her out of fear. 

A surge of anger flamed in her at the world that had treated him so cruelly. She lifted her head from where it rested on his shoulder, her gaze intense. "As long as I live, Angel, I will not suffer anyone to hurt you ever again." 

There was shock in his eyes for a moment, then the potent adoration she had come to know well. "Nor I you, Christine. We must put our heads together and create a plan to defeat those who would come between us." 

She sat up, her fingers wiping away his tears as he brushed away hers. "You mean Raoul." 

The Phantom nodded. "He would see me dead or in prison, would he not?" 

"Yes. He is slow to believe in things he cannot see for himself, but now that he knows you are real, that you live, he will stop at nothing to protect me from you." 

"Then he must be made to think I am dead." He had regained his composure, and was once again the dark, forceful presence Christine had grown to love. "Can you do that, Christine? Can you lie to the boy and make him believe you, make him believe that his injury has killed me?"

Christine looked away for a moment, considering the plan. "Yes," she finally answered, "I can make him believe me. I am an actress after all." She gave him a wry smile. "But we cannot remain at the Opera Populaire. We would have to leave Paris, go somewhere no one knows us to keep you safe." She hated to ask, as she knew going abroad would touch on all her Angel's deepest fears. "It would mean leaving the safety, the anonymity of the life you've lived there."

"For you, Christine, I would do anything," he vowed. 

"But first you must heal. Are you certain you wish to return to the opera house tonight?"

"Yes. If the boy is as determined as you say, he will search until you return, and eventually he will find us here. If I am to face him again, I would rather it be on familiar ground." The Phantom's gaze traveled the room until it landed on the wall clock. "It's nearly midnight. Go see to the carriage, and find out what they've done with my clothes. We shall leave here within the hour." 

Christine rose and then bent to kiss his forehead before she left the room. He caught her hand as she turned and pressed his lips to her wrist. She went forth, her heart racing at the memory of that soft, sweet caress.


	4. A Darkness Shared

The sound of someone knocking quietly at her door woke Madame Giry. Getting out of bed, she shrugged into a dressing gown, wondering which of her charges had become ill in the middle of the night. She opened the door to find Christine Daaé standing there. "Mon Dieu! Christine, you are wet to the skin and nearly frozen! Get in here this instant and get warmed up."

Christine shook her head, her soaked tresses spattering water everywhere. "I can't, not now, and 'tis only snow. Please, Madame Giry, if you care for him at all, you will get dressed and help me."

The ballet mistress hesitated but a moment before slipping on her shoes and lighting her small hand lamp. "Come, child," she said, shutting the door to her rooms. "Take me to him."

Christine started down the hallway at a half-run, her sense of urgency enough that Madame Giry followed suit. "I left him in the chapel," Christine explained over her shoulder. "I didn't want to leave him so exposed but it was close and I needed to get the horses back without anyone seeing him."

At her mention of the chapel, Madame Giry recalled the memory she had confessed to the Vicomte of letting the devil's child into the opera house so many years ago. She hurried down the steps after the girl, listening to the story she spilled out breathlessly.

"I'm sorry to have disturbed you, but I didn't know anyone else I could trust and I can't make it all the way to his home by myself with him and I knew you cared for him once–long enough to bring him here–so I hoped you would at least remember that and help me now—"

"I never stopped caring, Christine," she found herself saying. "I just stopped being able to ease his pain–"

The young woman halted abruptly, turning to face Madame Giry, her eyes blazing. Before she could lambaste her, the ballet mistress finished what she had been about to say. "–Only love could do that, and the love of a surrogate sister wasn't enough. Only you can save him, Christine, only your love is strong enough to rescue him from his self-imposed prison."

Giving a little gasp, Christine covered her mouth with her hand, then continued down the stairs, but not before Madame Giry caught a glimpse of the tears in her eyes. 

The chorus girl entered the darkened chapel, calling out softly, "Angel, I'm here. I've brought Madame Giry."

Turning her lamp up higher, she followed Christine into the room, startling when she heard a noise in the shadows. He was there, seated in one of the alcoves, leaning heavily against the wall, his complexion white. He turned his head toward her, blinking in the sudden light. Pain was etched into every line of his face. "Oh, Erik," she whispered, "what has he done to you?"

"It doesn't matter, Cecilié. I live, thanks to Christine." He reached out his hand, and Christine took it, the look on her face one of the purest joy. 

"Are you ready, Angel?" she asked him. 

"No," he answered honestly, "but it needs to be done." Holding on to Christine, he pushed off from the wall with his other hand, and rose slowly to his feet. She ducked under his arm, and he rested his weight across Christine's shoulders, as she picked up a satchel from the floor. Catching on, Madame Giry took his arm on the other side, and they made their way out of the chapel and down the long winding staircase into the depths of the opera house.

Several times Madame Giry asked him if he needed to rest, and each time he replied no, though the further down they went, the heavier he leaned on the two women. Finally they reached the lake and the boat. It took some effort, but they managed to get Erik into the gondola. He closed his eyes, the pain finally overcoming him. Pulling Christine aside, Madame Giry asked in a voice low enough that Erik would not hear, "Are you certain of this?" 

Christine nodded. "I'm strong, and I think I remember the way. I can get us to his home." 

She sighed. "That's not what I meant. Are you sure this is what you want? Your fiancé was here earlier, very worried about you. He made me promise that I would send word when you returned."

The girl turned pale at the mention of the Vicomte. "The Phantom was on the ground, defeated, unarmed, and I called for Raoul to stop, but still he attempted to kill my Angel. Whatever feelings I had for him, and I hesitate now to call them love, vanished in that moment he could not show mercy to a helpless man. Please hold off on sending word to the Vicomte until I ask you to." 

"I will do as you request, but know that he will turn up here in the morning, and if he finds the horses have been returned he will stop at nothing until he finds you." 

Christine bit her lip, and Madame Giry could see her latching onto and abandoning several plans, something she never would have thought the chorus girl capable of. _"You've chosen well, Erik,"_ she thought, _"and I have underestimated her."_

Finally, Christine seemed to reach a conclusion. "No one saw me leave the horses in the stable, I'm sure of it. If Raoul asks, you have not seen nor heard from me. I will write him a note explaining that I am in seclusion, grieving for my Angel, and I will leave it for you here, where the boat is usually tied up."

Madame Giry nodded. "That will work. And I will bring you clothes and food and anything else I think you'll need and leave them here as well." Christine started to get into the boat, but she stopped her, pulling the girl—no, the woman—she had thought of as a daughter into a hug. "Take good care of him, and yourself, my dear." 

Giving her a smile that lit up the darkness, Christine answered, "I will," then kissed her on the cheek, stepped into the boat and pushed off from shore. 

Madame Giry watched until she could no longer see the candle at the stern of the boat. She was overjoyed for Erik and Christine, believing they had found in each other what had been missing from both their lives for so many years. Yet the shadow of the Vicomte hung over them, and she feared that tragedy might still be lurking in the darkness.

* * *

It took some doing, but Christine finally mastered the art of guiding the gondola through the maze of pillars and channels in the underground lake. The trick was finesse, rather than strength, a hard push more often than not would make her overshoot the turns, forcing her to back up, which turned out to be far more difficult than going forward. Despite her strength from years of dance training, her shoulders ached and her arms were shaking by the time they reached the portcullis that separated the Phantom's lair from the rest of the lake.

Following her Angel's instructions, she managed to hit the underwater trigger to raise the gate, though it took several long minutes of poking blindly with the pole before she struck it. Guiding the little boat to shore, Christine jumped off, not caring that she landed knee-deep in the unexpectedly warm water. Tying the craft up, she helped her Angel out of the boat and up the stairs to his bedroom, letting go of him as he sat down on the edge of the black swan bed. 

She ran a hand over his cheek, feeling the slight flush of fever under a thin sheen of sweat. Biting back the urge to tell him they should have remained at Dr. Jarred's, she unfastened his cloak. He batted her hand away gently. "I think I can still manage to undress myself," he said. "You need to get out of those wet clothes before you get sick as well. There are clothes and towels and such through that door." He pointed to a dark opening on the opposite side of the bed. 

Lighting a candle from one of the burning gas jets on the wall, Christine entered what amounted to a large closet filled with clothing, both male and female. Bolts of cloth leaned against one of the walls, and a chest held needles, thread and notions. She realized with a start that her Angel had probably made everything he was wearing, as well as the wedding dress that adorned the mannequin in the other room. 

Searching through the items hanging on rods along one wall, she found a set of men's black silk pajamas, Oriental in style with loose, wide-legged pants and a very long jacket that buttoned up the front. She imagined on a man as tall as her Angel the hem of the jacket would reach his knees. She found no nightgowns, however. A quick rifle through the drawers of one of the wardrobes produced towels, but nothing in the way of extra blankets or bedding. Obviously her Angel had never envisioned having an overnight guest, she thought sadly. Slipping rapidly out of her wet, filthy, bloodstained dress, she dried off then put on the top half of the men's pajamas. She had to roll up the sleeves, but the hem fell to mid calf, and Christine decided that was decent enough. Extraordinary circumstances called for extraordinary measures. Besides, he had already seen her ankles the night he had brought her here after the gala. 

She entered the bedroom to find him struggling with his frock coat. Setting the pajama bottoms down on the bed, she helped her Angel slide the coat over his shoulders and off, then set to work on his vest buttons. He looked as if he would protest again, but Christine put a finger to his lips. "I know this is difficult, Angel, but you are not alone any longer. Let me help." 

Emotion flickered across his face for a moment, and then he looked off to the side, trying to keep his composure. Finally, he nodded, and she attacked the buttons again. Once he was down to skin and gauze, Christine unwound the bandage to check his injury. The stitches were still intact, and the edges of the wound were only slightly pinker than the surrounding skin. Dr. Jarred had been kind enough to give her thorough instructions on what to look for, how to treat any possible infection, and the correct way to measure and inject the morphine he had given her before they had left his surgery. The satchel she had carried down with them into the lower levels contained bandages, carbolic acid, and other medical supplies, which she hoped she would never have to use.

"What's the diagnosis, Dr. Daaé?" he asked. 

Christine smiled up at him as she rewrapped the bandage. "It looks good, for a nasty wound held together with fifty-nine stitches. Dr. Jarred may be a great surgeon, but his embroidery leaves much to be desired." Straightening up, she handed him the pajamas. "I'm going to get the bag with the medicine in it." 

She took her time fetching the satchel from the boat, allowing him to finish undressing undisturbed. She meandered through his work area, taking a closer look at the miniatures of the opera house and the stacks of sketches and music. Almost every opera she could recall the company performing was represented in some way, from the sets to the arrangements to the costumes. She couldn't remember ever having seen a designer come to see Monsieur LeFevre. Perhaps the twenty thousand francs a month he had paid the Phantom had actually garnered the theater something in return besides freedom from "accidents". 

"Christine…" Her name was called quietly, yet she could hear the undercurrent of pain in her Angel's voice. 

Climbing the steps to the bedroom once more, she found he had managed to change into the pajamas and was again seated on the edge of the bed. "Are you ready for the morphine now?" 

From his expression, she could tell he wasn't happy about relying on the drug. But he hadn't had a dose since the one Dr. Jarred had originally given him, and his discomfort was evident in the lines around his eyes and the way he clenched his teeth anytime he had to shift position. Need overcame his stubbornness, and he responded to her question with a curt nod. 

Setting the bag of medicine down on the floor next to a small table, she took out a box that contained a tiny scale and a set of weights. Consulting the written instructions Dr. Jarred had included, she carefully weighed out one dose of powdered morphine, then dissolved it in water. Drawing the solution into the syringe, Christine turned to her Angel, and was confronted by the realization of where the shot needed to go. "Um," she stammered, feeling the blood rush to her face, "this is rather awkward…"

"I'll do it," he said gruffly, embarrassed as well, and took the needle from her. She turned her back, her heart clenching at his sharp intake of breath as she envisioned him plunging the syringe into his hip. "It's done," he told her a few seconds later, and she took the empty needle from him. 

She began to put away the supplies she had gotten out when he said her name. Pausing, Christine looked over her shoulder at him. He removed his white mask, holding it out to her. She took it, setting it carefully on the table, her gaze never leaving his face. "I have something to show you," he said, his voice soft and sad. Christine thought she could hear a tinge of fear underlying his words. 

Her Angel brought his hand up, touching the marred side of his face. "This isn't…this isn't all of it," he finally managed, and Christine felt tears of sympathy welling up her eyes. 

Moving to kneel in front of him, Christine laid her fingers on his disfigured cheek below his. "You don't have to be afraid with me. I know what's in here," she told him, her right hand coming up to cover his heart. 

A long shudder went through her Angel then he pulled off his black wig. Christine gave a little gasp, but she didn't flinch, didn't turn her face away from his. The bumpy, crimson, hairless and pitted skin extended halfway up the right side of his head, going back past his ear. His eyes searched her face, awaiting her response. 

"Your hair's blond," she finally said, reaching up to touch the silky strands that grew in attractive disarray over the rest of his head. The color was rich and dark like old honey with highlights that glinted golden in the candlelight. 

Her Angel made a strangled choking sound that Christine thought might be a sob, or laughter. "Oh, Christine," he whispered, "After everything that's happened today, still you manage to surprise me."

Getting to her feet, she kissed the top of his head gently. "I think it's time you got some more sleep." She helped him into the bed, pulling the blankets up over him. He stretched out on his right side, his arm tucked underneath his head. 

Christine finished clearing up the supplies she had gotten out then went through the lair blowing out candles and turning the gas jets down low. When she returned to the bedroom, the Phantom's eyes were closed. She eyed the furs covering the floor critically. Soft as they were, they still covered stone, and with no blanket or pillow, she would be quite uncomfortable. If she was going to properly take care of her Angel, then she needed to be well rested. 

Her gaze traveled back to the empty spot in the swan bed. She wasn't going to tell anyone and the chance of someone stumbling upon the hideaway just to witness her minor sin was unlikely. And it wasn't as if she hadn't heard the rumors circulating about Raoul and herself. After all, it was what was expected of an actress, wasn't it? 

To hell with it. She had made her choice that morning in the graveyard. Climbing carefully into the bed, she laid down next to her Angel. In the faint light, with the deformed side of his face against the pillow, he looked as she had always imagined him, a brave, beautiful Angel, come to rescue her from her sad and too often lonely existence. Tears slid from her eyes into her hair as she realized she still thought of him that way. 

His hand lay atop the sheets between them, and she interlaced her fingers with his, leaning in to kiss the soft skin under his left eye. "I love you, Angel," she breathed, and closing her eyes, she slept.


	5. Missions and Missives

Jumping down from his sleigh, Raoul walked into the opera house's stables, leaving his steeds under his servant's care. Immediately noticing the two black carriage horses lazily chewing hay in their stalls, he sought out the stable manager. "When were these horses returned?" he demanded to know.

The grizzled horseman ran a hand through his hair, bits of hay floating to the ground. "Don't know, Monsieur. Found 'em in their stalls this morning, harnesses still on 'em, but none the worse for wear."

"And the carriage?" 

"Sitting in the pass-through. I put it away." He pointed to where the carriage was backed into an open bay. 

Walking over to it, Raoul examined it carefully. There was no hint of where it had been, no mud splattered on the underside, no brush or leaves caught in the spokes of the wheels. Climbing into the seats, Raoul found no glove or scarf left behind by a careless occupant. The only thing out of place was a dark stain on the leather of the seat that faced the rear of the carriage. Raoul licked his finger and rubbed at the spot. His finger came away red. "Blood…." So the Phantom had been in the carriage after his duel with Raoul at the cemetery. 

But if the Phantom had been badly wounded, and seated here, who had driven the carriage back to the opera house? Where had it been between yesterday morning and the time it had been returned last night? And more important still, where was Christine?

Damn Madame Giry! He had taken her at her word. Swearing under his breath, Raoul strode through the backstage area of the opera house, chorus members and stagehands scattering before him at the murderous expression on his face. At least he did not need to ask where to find the ballet mistress. "Madame Giry!" he roared as he entered the rehearsal hall. 

The dance class came to a sudden halt, ballerinas squeaking and whispering behind their hands. Madame Giry thumped her cane on the floor. "Girls! Girls!" With a shake of her head, she gestured to one of the older dancers to take over the class then started in the direction of her office, not bothering to see if the Vicomte followed her. 

"Madame Giry, where is Christine?" 

She looked up in surprise as she moved behind her desk. "I do not know, Monsieur. As far as I know, she has not returned." 

"Yet the carriage she left in yesterday is back in the stable. Imagine that, the horses found their way back all by themselves." Raoul was barely keeping his temper in check. He had had just about all he could take of this conspiracy of silence among the performers. And yet, he could see no other way to find Christine save through Madame Giry as he was the outsider here. She knew the opera house and its occupants; he did not.

"I know nothing of the horses, Vicomte. If Christine has returned, she has not seen fit to contact me." Madame Giry crossed the room and opened the door. "Meg!" When her daughter approached, the woman stepped outside her office to speak with her. "I will be but a moment." 

Raoul waited impatiently, spending the time trying to read the correspondence on her desk upside down. There didn't appear to be any notes from the Opera Ghost. When he realized she hadn't returned after several minutes, he re-entered the rehearsal hall. The ballet mistress was across the room speaking with the pianist. "Madame Giry!"

She glanced at him, as if surprised he was still there. "Pardon me, Vicomte. There was a question about the music—"

"I don't give a damn about the music! I want to know what the Phantom has done with my fiancée!" At that, all chatter in the room stopped and Raoul could feel every eye fixing on him. He glared at the little ballerinas. 

"Calm yourself, Monsieur. I have sent Meg to look for her. She knows all of Christine's hiding places. If she is here, Meg will find her." She escorted him to a chair along one of the walls. "Please, sit, have some tea, and see what fine dancers your patronage has given the Opera Populaire." 

Taking the offered seat, Raoul folded his arms across his chest, not bothering to try and hide the scowl on his face. If Christine did not turn up soon, he would take the opera house apart brick by brick until he found her.

* * *

Something woke Christine. She lay still for a moment, trying to make sense of the unfamiliar surroundings. A low moan sounded right next to her ear. Startled, she sat bolt upright in the bed, nearly tumbling out of it in her haste to get away from whomever was sharing the blankets with her. 

She was standing on the floor, shaking, thinking vaguely of hunting for a candle, when the soft cry came again. The man in the bed rolled toward her, giving her a glimpse of his tormented face. Her Angel! How could she have forgotten yesterday's hell? 

Leaning over him, she laid her hand on his forehead. He was burning up with fever. "No, no, oh no," Christine whispered. Damn his stubbornness, and damn her weakness for going along with him. They should have remained at Dr. Jarred's. Panic fluttered in her chest for several seconds then Christine straightened up, taking a deep breath. "It's up to you," she told herself. "You can do this. If you do not, there is no one else to take care of him." The thought of losing her Angel now, after everything they had been through the day before, brought tears to her eyes, but she blinked them back. She had to be strong.

First things first. She crossed the room to the wall and turned up the gas jet, then lit several candles, placing them around the bed so she would have light to work by. Leaning over the Phantom once again, she touched his face, calling "Angel" softly. He flinched slightly at the feel of her fingertips against his cheek, but didn't awaken. She called him more loudly, tapping his face this time. 

Gasping, his eyelids opened, and Christine saw the confusion she had felt upon awakening in his eyes. "You're safe, Angel," she told him, watching the tension go out of his body at her words. "Safe, but sick. I need to look at your wound."

He sat up slowly, wincing as he swung his feet over the side of the bed. He wobbled precariously, nearly falling back onto the mattress again, grabbing hold of Christine to steady himself. She suddenly found herself between his legs, his hands on her hips. There was a moment of stunned awkwardness then Christine laid her arms around his shoulders, embracing him. When she stepped back, he looked up at her, the expression on his face one of bittersweet longing. She shivered, feeling the same hunger whispering inside her. 

She laid her hand against his cheek, and the heat that met her palm reminded her of what she should be doing. Unwinding the bandage around his waist, she groaned inwardly at the sight of the red, inflamed flesh around the stitches. She touched it gently, feeling him jerk and suck in a sharp breath. His skin burned hotter here, and she knew without having to consult Dr. Jarred's instructions that did not bode well. 

Rewrapping the gauze, she straightened. "It's infected. I must send for Dr. Jarred." 

The Phantom caught her arm as she turned away. "No."

"No? You heard what he told us last night. If the wound turns septic, you will die, Angel." She looked around the lair, his sanctuary. "Are you afraid of another person knowing where you live? I shall lead him here blind-folded, if that is the case." 

Emotions raced across his face, and Christine was surprised at how easily she could read them. His solitary life had not taught him to keep his true feelings from showing on his countenance. Fear and shame and something she thought might be despair flitted through his eyes. She tried a different approach. "You must be in terrible pain. If I were hurt, sick, in danger of dying, you would send for help, wouldn't you? You wouldn't let me die, doing nothing to aid me?" 

His eyes fairly blazed with anger at her words. "Of course not, Christine! I love you!"

"Then why would you ask me to let you suffer? Do you think I do not care for you?" She tried to keep her tone gentle, but he brought his hands up to hide his face and she knew her words had struck a nerve. "Angel, please." Grasping his hands, she pulled them down, kneeling so she could look into his eyes. They shone brightly with tears he fought to hold back. He is sick, she told herself, sick and drugged and frightened. "Even if you tell me 'no', Angel, I will still send for Dr. Jarred. You would do no less for me." 

For a long moment, they stared at each other then he nodded. She wrapped her arms around him, hugging him briefly, his fever burning her through the pajamas she wore. Once he was settled back in the bed, shivering under the covers, Christine took a candle and went into the other room in search of pen and paper.

She had just seated herself at the Phantom's worktable and begun to write when she heard someone hiss her name. Startled, she glanced around the room, but saw no one. "Christine…" the voice called again, and she knew it wasn't her Angel. The timbre was too high and why would he whisper? Rising, she crossed to the far side of the grotto, where the covered mirrors leaned against the wall. The voice was coming from behind one of the mirrors!

"Who's calling my name?" she asked, reaching for a candlestick in case she would have to defend herself and her Angel. 

"Christine, it's me, Meg. Mother sent me, but I can't figure out how to open the door." 

Christine set down the candlestick and pulled the drape off the mirror. Running her fingers around the sides of the frame as she had seen the Phantom do when he returned her to her dressing room, she found a place that felt slightly raised. Pressing on the bump caused the mirror to spring open toward her. Christine jumped back, and found herself staring at an equally surprised Meg. 

Stepping through the mirror, her arms laden with a large bundle, Meg stopped and stared, her eyes wide in wonder. "Oh, Christine, when you told me about this place I tried to imagine it, but I never dreamed it would be this beautiful!" 

Christine smiled and hugged her friend. "I'm so glad you're here, Meg. I need you to take a note back to go to Dr. Jarred. But what do you have there?"

"Clothes for you, and bedding, and food," she answered, going back through the mirror and returning with a basket. 

"Blankets, just what I needed," Christine said, dumping the clothes out of the bundle onto the floor and carrying the quilts up the stairs into the bedroom. The Phantom lay curled on his side in the bed, tremors shaking him. Adding the extra blankets to the one already covering him, she helped him sit up and drink some water. 

"Christine, what's going on?" he asked, his eyes cloudy and unfocused. 

"Madame Giry's daughter, Meg, is here. She brought us some things, and will take the note to Dr. Jarred." She set the water glass down on the table. "Do you need a shot of morphine?" 

Though the Phantom was obviously in great pain, he shook his head. "No, it makes it hard for me to think, makes me want to sleep, and I can't help you help me if I'm unconscious." 

It hurt her to see him in such distress, but she couldn't fault his logic. "All right then. I'll finish the note to Dr. Jarred and I'll be right back." 

Rising, Christine crossed the room to where Meg stood in the doorway. The other girl waited until they were back down the stairs before she asked, "He looked so sick. Is he dying, Christine?" 

She ran her hands over her face and through her tangled hair. "I don't know, I don't know. That's why I need Dr. Jarred to come here as soon as he can." Picking up a pen, she dipped it in the ink well and finished the note to the physician. 

"Christine, that's not possible. It's been snowing without stopping since yesterday morning. It's up to my knees outside. Paris is at a standstill. No one will go out to deliver the message to him, and if they could, he would not be able to get back here." At Christine's look of dismay, Meg added, "And Raoul's upstairs making a big fuss. If he does not hear from you soon, he will come looking for you, and down here is the first place he will come." 

No. No, no, no. This was not happening. Her Angel was not going to die. She would not allow it. Christine buried her face in her hands for a moment, thinking desperately. Her head came up and she fixed Meg with a stare. "You said Raoul is here. If Paris is at a standstill, how did he get here? Surely he did not spend the night in the opera house. I would have noticed that when we returned last night."

Meg shook her head. "No, he came by sleigh this morning." 

Grabbing another piece of paper, Christine began to write furiously. "Here is what you will do, Meg. You will take this note from me to Raoul. You will tell him that I am sick with grief and exhaustion and whatever else you can think of and that I wish to see Dr. Jarred right away." She sealed the letter, wrote "Raoul" on the outside of it, and handed it to Meg. Taking up a fresh sheet of parchment, she wrote a second note to Dr. Jarred and sealed it. "You will give this note to Raoul to bear to Dr. Jarred."

The look Meg gave Christine was quizzical. "Christine, I don't—" Realization of what Christine was doing dawned in her eyes. "Oh, Christine," she said, "you are a devious, devious girl." 

"Desperate, more likely. Now, go, Meg, hurry. Oh! Please return after you've delivered the letters, and you remember that awful tea your mother used to make us drink every time we were sick? If you could bring the ingredients for it, I would be forever in your debt." 

Stooping to give Christine a hug, Meg said, "I will fly up the stairs. You can put your faith in me." 

"I do, Meg, I do." Christine clasped the other girl's hand tightly then let her go, watching until she disappeared through the mirror.

* * *

Raoul sat in the back of his sleigh, the wind chilling his face as his horses plowed through the drifts urged on by his driver. He unfolded the note from Christine Meg had given him, reading again the words written in a hasty, smudged hand. 

_My Angel is dead, Raoul. He died in my arms mere hours ago at a physician's, and already the grief consumes me. Please, Raoul, do not ask to see me. I need to be alone right now._

Her signature was smeared with what Raoul presumed to be tears. How she could grieve for that monster, that murderer, he did not know. And if what Meg had told him about the state she had found Christine in was true, then her foolish attempt to help her Angel had made her ill. At least she had sense enough to call for a doctor. After this was all over with, after Christine was well, he would take her away from the opera house, away from those people and their ghosts and their secrets. He would take care of her and make sure nothing like this ever happened to Christine again. 

"Can't you go any faster?" he called to his driver. 

"No, sir. We might be able to get there quicker if I pushed the team, but then the horses would never make it back without a good day's rest," the man answered.

"Very well. Do what you can." Tucking the letter from Christine away in his coat pocket with the missive to the doctor, he settled back in the seat to wait impatiently.


	6. All Love Can Be

"Angel, you awake?" Christine's voice was gentle, as was the hand she ghosted over his cheek. The Phantom stirred, rolling slowly onto his back to look up at her. "I've made that tea for you. Can you sit up?"

That was a good question. He raised himself up on his elbows, closing his eyes as the room dipped and swerved around him. Christine gripped him under the arm, helping him the rest of the way up, leaning him against pillows she piled behind his back. When the dizzy sensation passed, he opened his eyes to find her seated on the bed beside him, a mug with steam rising from it in her hand. 

"I'm afraid this will taste quite awful, but you must drink it. It should help bring your fever down." Once again, she wrapped her hands around his as he accepted the cup from her. He took a sip and nearly gagged. She was right, it was foul, but he dutifully drank it quickly as he could, not wanting the taste to linger on his tongue any longer than necessary. 

She took the cup away when he was done then laid her hand against his forehead. "For reference," she told him, but he could see the worry in her eyes. 

"How long has it been?" he asked. They had agreed that if Raoul did not return with Dr. Jarred within four hours that Christine would have to clean the infection out of his wound. Neither of them was looking forward to that. 

Christine picked up the Phantom's pocket watch from the bedside table. "A little over an hour. I'll be right back." Rising, she left the bedroom, returning a few minutes later with a bowl of water and some towels. Setting the bowl down, Christine soaked one of the small towels in it, wrung it out then turned to the Phantom.

He eyed her uncertainly, his feverish brain too tired to make the logical connection he knew had to be there. She wiped the wet rag gently over his face and down his neck. It was cold. Ah, another method to bring his body temperature down. He watched her as she worked, her head bowed in concentration, stroking the damp cloth over his shoulders, across his chest, down his arms. She looked up as she dipped the rag in the water, catching him with his mouth slightly open and his breath shuddering in and out of his lungs. 

Awareness dawned in her eyes and Christine blushed then squeezed out the cloth again and helped him lean forward so she could run the cold rag over his back. Despite her efforts, the Phantom could feel his fever spiking, and he began to shiver uncontrollably. She pulled all three of the blankets over him, but he couldn't get warm, couldn't stop shaking. 

He felt the mattress dip and opened his eyes to find Christine crawling under the covers next to him. "Come here," she said, and for some reason, he didn't understand what she wanted. "My poor, sick Angel. You're cold; I'm warm." She held out her hand to him, and hesitantly he moved toward her, not quite believing this was happening. 

"Closer," she said. It was as if she was speaking a foreign language. Nothing was making any sense to him. The Phantom didn't know if he should blame it on the fever, or the fact that this whole situation was utterly beyond his realm of experience. 

Giving what sounded to him like a fondly impatient sigh, Christine scooted over until she was tucked in against him. She wrapped his arm around her waist then pulled the blankets up over his shoulder. After several minutes, his shivering stopped, and he could let himself enjoy what he was experiencing. She had been right, she was very warm. He could feel her heat against his skin through the silk she wore. Her fingers slowly carded through his hair, the sensation soothing and yet completely unfamiliar. 

Boldly, he tilted his head down, resting it against her shoulder. The soft vibration of her humming fluttered against his cheek. A smile crossed his face, and he tightened his arm around her. The humming became long wordless notes, barely above a whisper, but sweet and pure. The melody seemed familiar, but he couldn't recall the last time he had heard it. 

_"I will watch you in the darkness, show you love will see you through…When the bad dreams wake you crying, I'll show you all love can do…All love can do…"_

An ache rose in the Phantom's chest as he realized she was singing a song he had written for her years ago, when she had first come to the opera house. It had been a lullaby to calm a child frightened of the dark, alone in a strange new world. It had been his promise to her as her Angel.

_"I will watch through the night, hold you in my arms, give you dreams where no one will be…"_

He had never imagined his own simple words, sung so softly, could move him so deeply. He squeezed his eyes shut, trying to hold back the flood of tears. 

_"I will watch through the dark, 'til the morning comes, for the light will take you through the night to see. A light showing us all love can be…"_

She was his light, his candle against the darkness. Christine was his Angel.

_"I will guard you with my bright wings, stay 'til your heart learns to see…All love can be…"_

The tears spilled over, and he buried his face in her neck, feeling her arms go around him, holding him, holding _him_ …. And in that moment, the Phantom knew what it was to be loved.

* * *

Tristan Jarred had just risen from the dining room table, intent on heading to his study to write up some case notes when there was a knock at the front door. He paused in the hallway, hearing the door to the kitchen open behind him. "I'll answer it, Jean," he said to his houseboy, "eat your supper." 

"Yes, sir, Dr. Jarred," came the reply. 

Tristan continued down the hall to the front of the house, wondering what poor soul had braved the drifting snow in search of a physician. Turning up the gaslight just inside the door, he opened it. A young man of about twenty stood there, well dressed, his coat the finest cashmere, a scarf of silk around his neck. A cloak hung off his shoulders, the hood covering his head. Despite the expensive attire, he shivered in the cold, his cheeks reddened from his ride in the sleigh that stood at the curb. Tristan had just noticed the coat of arms painted on the side of the sleigh when the man spoke. 

"Please, Monsieur, I must speak with Dr. Jarred." 

"Come in, sir." When the man was inside and the cold once again shut behind the door, he said, "I am Tristan Jarred. What business do you have with me at this late hour?" 

The young man pushed back his hood, revealing shoulder-length blond hair and a worried visage. "My fiancée has taken ill, and she asks for you specifically." Reaching into the inside pocket of his coat, he produced an envelope sealed with red wax. 

Tristan took it from him, breaking the seal and withdrawing the note. "Who is your fiancée?" he asked as he opened the single, folded sheet. 

"Christine Daaé, the opera singer," came the answer, just as the doctor saw the signature at the bottom. He was heading for his surgery before he had the note half read. There was only one reason Christine Daaé would be writing to him, and it was not a good one. 

"Give me a few minutes to gather what I need, then I will be with you," he told the man, leaving him standing in the middle of the hall. 

Once inside his examining room, the doctor gave his full attention to the note. 

_Dr. Jarred,  
I'm sorry to impose upon you again, but I must ask you to please come at once to the opera house. That which we feared has come to pass, and I am in feverish need of your assistance. The man who bears this note to you is my fiancé, Raoul, the Vicomte de Chagny. If he feels the need to question you about my whereabouts yesterday, you have my permission to provide him with whatever details he requires regarding my Angel's death._

_Please, I beg of you, come as quickly as you can. Madame Giry will bring you to me._

_Christine Daaé_

Clever girl, hiding her true message between the lines. She must have some reason for not wanting her fiancé to know that the man Tristan had begun to think of as Monsieur Angel lived. And truly, there was only one he could think of, only one reason why Mademoiselle Daaé had not told him the identity of their attacker the day before, even though he had seen in her eyes she knew it. The love and affection she had shown Monsieur Angel would not sit well with one of the Vicomte's stature. Young men of his age and societal position were, in Tristan's experience, far too concerned with honor and appearances, prone to dueling over the smallest of slights. He suspected Christine's Angel had wound up on the wrong end of the Vicomte's sword. 

He gathered the supplies he thought he would need and tossed them into his medical bag, throwing the note into the fire. Taking the back hallway to the kitchen, he informed Jean and his housekeeper of where he was going, and that he did not expect to be back until the next morning, if then. Returning to the hallway where the Vicomte waited, Tristan put on his coat, hat, and his warmest pair of gloves. A surgeon with frostbite was of no use to anyone. "All right, sir," he said to the Vicomte, "shall we be on our way?"

* * *

His tears finally slowing to a mere trickle, the Phantom raised his head from Christine's shoulder, moving so that there was a distance between them. He felt…embarrassed, ashamed somehow that he had cried like a small child in her arms. This was never how he had wanted things to be between them. He had never wanted her to see him this way, sick and weak, frightened. 

He had planned everything so carefully the night he had first shown himself to her, wanted her to only see his strengths, his genius, his beauty. Yet when she had had the chance, Christine had gone straight for his mask, stripped away his shield, bared his face and then his soul. She knew all his darkest secrets. He didn't understand why she was still here. 

Opening his eyes, he found her watching him, her face wet from her own tears. She laid her hand on his cheek, her gaze searching his, looking for what, he didn't know. "I love you, Angel," she finally whispered. "You know that, don't you?"

He nodded slowly. He had felt it lying in her arms; it had enfolded him like a living blanket, warm and golden. It was the only explanation for everything she had done, but even hearing the words, even having experienced it, he found it difficult to believe. She must have seen the doubt in his eyes because she moved closer, brushing her lips over his cheek, kissing the corner of his mouth. Need overcame him, and he turned his head so that his lips met hers. The first kiss was quick, soft and chaste. The second was softer still, her mouth barely touching his until he captured her trembling lips with his own, savoring the salt of mingled tears and the sweet, soul-shaking taste of love. 

They finally parted, his breathing sounding harsh and loud in his ears as he shivered in her arms. Christine leaned her forehead against his shoulder, her arm around his neck. "Oh, Angel," she whispered, "oh, I never knew it could feel like that…."

The Phantom was in a daze of his own. She had kissed him…She loved him…Christine loved him. All his fears were swept away for the moment. "Christine," he said, his hand under her chin lifting her head. "Christine, you must do it."

Her confused gaze met his. "What? Do what?" 

"My wound. You have to clean the infection out now." 

"But—" There was fear in her eyes. 

"You have to do it! Every moment that goes by the poison goes deeper. We can't wait for the doctor any longer, not if you want me to live." A bout of violent shivering underlined his words. "Please, Christine. Please, I trust you." 

She looked into his eyes for a long moment, swallowing audibly. She nodded, then rose from the bed and began to prepare a shot of morphine for him. This time there was no hesitating on her part. Once it was ready, she leaned over him and plunged the needle into his hip through the silk pajamas. He gripped the sheets tightly, grunting at the quick pain, then relaxing, feeling the drug began to flow through his veins. 

Bleary-eyed, the Phantom watched her prepare. She read through Dr. Jarred's instructions, setting out the medical supplies and medicines. She gathered all the towels he had and stacked them by the bed, placing several layers underneath him. She tied her hair back and rolled the sleeves of her pajamas up as far as they would go. She boiled water and scrubbed her hands carefully in it then used the flame from a candle to sterilize the blade of a scalpel, needles, and a pair of fine-pointed scissors. 

Finally Christine turned to him. "Are you ready, Angel?" she asked as she unwound the bandage. 

Biting the inside of his lip, the Phantom nodded. Christine bent over him, the scissors in hand. He felt a slight tug as each stitch was snipped, but no real pain until she actually touched the area, applying pressure to force the infection from the wound. 

Then it was as if a red-hot poker had been shoved into his side. He twisted his fists in the sheets, trying not to move, the morphine doing nothing to dull the pain. The room began to blur before his eyes as another wave of agony rolled through him. Giving a short, sharp scream, he mercifully passed out.

* * *

Tristan and the Vicomte settled themselves in the sleigh, and the driver clucked to the horses, urging them forward. "Push them now," the Vicomte called out, and the man gave a curt nod, cracking his whip over the animals' backs. The sleigh lurched slightly as they broke into a trot, then the ride evened out. 

There was silence between the two men for a few minutes, though Tristan caught Raoul staring at him quite openly on several occasions. Finally, the Vicomte asked rather brusquely, "How do you come to know my fiancée? Have you been her physician long?" 

"No, Monsieur," he answered honestly. "Yesterday was the first time I ever laid eyes on her." 

The Vicomte took a moment to digest that information, then said, "Christine brought _him_ to you, then." He didn't bother to hide the hatred in his eyes or his voice. 

Tristan nodded slowly, sensing he was now treading dangerous ground. "She brought me an injured man, but I never learned his name. He survived the surgery, but not the night. She was most distraught at his passing." 

"And now she has made herself ill, grieving for that creature." Raoul turned his head away in disgust.

The doctor looked away himself, to school his expression into one of neutrality rather than indignation. No wonder Mademoiselle Daaé wished to keep the fact her Angel lived secret. "He was no 'creature'," he finally said. "He was a man, cursed by God, perhaps, but a man none the less." 

The Vicomte rounded on him. "What did he tell you? That he was an Angel of Music? Did he tell you how he bewitched my Christine, how he made her think he was the spirit of her dead father? Did he confess to you the murders he committed, or how he drove Christine to the cemetery in order to kidnap her?"

"All I know of him is what Mademoiselle Daaé told me. That he was her friend, her teacher, and that he had been attacked by someone with a sword." Tristan watched Raoul's face for any sign of remorse.

"It was he who attacked first!" Raoul snarled. "I had to defend myself, defend Christine. Go to the police if you must! I do not regret what happened. I am glad he is dead and will trouble us no more." At that, the Vicomte fell silent.

Going to the police was the last thing Tristan could do, no matter how much he wished to see the arrogant Vicomte punished for his crime. Mademoiselle Daaé and her Angel had entrusted him with their lives, and the gendarmes would ask all sorts of unpleasant questions like where was Monsieur Angel's body? Tristan wrapped his scarf more tightly around his face, trying to hide his growing dislike for the young man. He had no idea if what the Vicomte had said was true, if Monsieur Angel was a murderer or not. He could only judge him by what he had seen with his own eyes, and Mademoiselle Daaé had not treated him as a murderer or a monster. He could still see her standing by his bedside, her small hands wrapped around her Angel's large one, a look of resolve on her face. A truer love he could not imagine. 

And based on that single impression he was conspiring with her to hide Monsieur Angel from a member of the nobility. He shook his head ruefully. What had he gotten himself into?

* * *

"Angel!" Christine cried out at the Phantom's scream. "Angel!" He gave no response. Her hands began to shake and her breathing quickened, yet she knew she could not afford to waste time on hysterics. Turning her gaze to his chest, she watched it continue to rise and fall. Fainted, that's all. He had simply fainted. 

Best that she took advantage of the situation then, and finished what she had started. She pressed on the swollen flesh surrounding his open wound, choking at the fetid odor raised by the sickly yellow fluid that oozed from it. She now knew where the expression "the stench of death" came from, for if death could have a scent, she was certain it would be the one stinging her sinuses and making her eyes water. 

Minutes passed as she worked at the wound, soaking up the poison with towels, using the scalpel to trim away flesh that was bloodless and dead. Her Angel did not stir during the whole ordeal, and Christine prayed that he would remain unconscious until she was completely finished. Finally the injury bled clean, red blood untainted by infection. Taking up the bottle of carbolic acid, she poured part of it into the cut, wincing in sympathy as it hissed and bubbled. 

She scrubbed her hands again before beginning the suturing, going so far as to rinse them with the acid, not wanting any trace of the poison to transfer from her back to him. Taking up the needle and thread, Christine looked at the Phantom. The wound still bled sluggishly. Swallowing hard, she bent over him again, using her right hand to hold the edges of the cut together, while the left pierced them with the needle. It was all she could do not to gag. The stench of the infection had not affected her as deeply as the realization that she was sewing living flesh did. She tried to think of it as anything else, mending a dress, or sewing ribbons on a new pair of toe shoes. 

Eventually, Christine fell into a rhythm of sew, tie, cut, sew, tie, cut. So focused was she on the actions that it was with surprise she noticed she had reached the end of wound. Cutting the tail end of the thread, she soaked a cloth in the carbolic acid and washed her handiwork with it. 

Finally, she looked up at her Angel's face, calling to him. Nothing. The controlled calm that had sustained her through cleaning and suturing his wound slipped away. "No…no…" Tears blurred Christine's vision, and she couldn't see clearly enough to know if his chest rose and fell or not. She laid her hand over his heart, but it was shaking so badly that any movement she felt might have been her own. 

Tears became great wracking sobs she couldn't control, all the tension and fear she had held back now spilling over in hysterical wails. She had killed him…she had killed her Angel…. She sank ungracefully to the floor, curling into a ball, her back pressed against the side of the bed as she cried.

She was still in that position when Madame Giry found her. "Christine! Child, whatever has happened?" She felt the woman's arms go around her, lifting her to her feet. Christine clung to her, still sobbing, though her tears were nearly exhausted. 

"I've killed him…" she moaned, unable to even look at the still form in the bed, barely noting the fourth presence in the room. Madame Giry hugged her, offering comfort that Christine could not accept. Her Angel had trusted her to save him and she had failed.

"Mademoiselle, you condemn yourself too hastily." Christine lifted her head from Madame Giry's shoulder long enough to recognize the tall figure of Dr. Jarred bending over her Angel. "Come, give me your hand." 

Letting go of Madame Giry, Christine offered her hand tentatively. The physician took it, laying her fingertips against the side of her Angel's throat. A slow, steady throbbing pulsed against her skin. 

"You have not killed him, on the contrary, you have most certainly saved his life." He moved her hand to the Phantom's forehead, and while still overly warm, his flesh no longer burned as it had before. 

"Oh, Angel," she whispered, trailing her fingers across his cheek. His eyes opened, and Christine found herself once again pulled in by that dark emerald gaze. 

"Christine…" The rest of the world disappeared in that moment, all she could see, all she could hear was him. Then that, too, faded away.


	7. Through Tristan's Eyes

Christine's hastily written note had in no way prepared Tristan for his experience at the opera house. Finding Madame Giry had been simple enough, though without her help he doubted he could have left the Vicomte behind. She had simply told the young man that Christine would be mortified to be seen by her husband-to-be in her sickbed. Eager to please, the Vicomte remained behind with Madame Giry's daughter, Meg, for company. 

He had assumed after that it would be a simple matter of following Madame Giry to Monsieur Angel's home. He had not realized the lengths Christine Daaé was prepared to go to in the protection of her teacher. To her credit, Madame Giry apologized for the blindfold and for the close proximity to his person necessitated by the very long walk down a winding staircase. She was not one for idle chatter, most of the conversation consisting of "Step up. Step down. Watch your head," but he would be lying if he said he found having her arm wrapped through his to be unpleasant. 

"We are close now," Madame Giry finally said. Tristan could hear the sound of water lapping against stone as well as the haunting echo of someone crying. "Step up, and watch your head," she commanded. 

He did so, coming to a halt when he felt her hand go to the blindfold. He blinked in the sudden light, the few candles seeming like the sun after the long darkness. "This way, Monsieur." 

Tristan followed her past what looked like the edge of an underground lake and up a short stone staircase into a bedchamber. The first thing that caught his attention was the huge bed in the shape of a black swan that dominated the room. The second was the foul smell of infection and the number of bloody towels strewn around the small, huddled figure on the floor next to the bed. Madame Giry went to her at once, helping the poor girl up, moving her out of the way so Tristan could attend to his patient. 

Monsieur Angel lay on his back in the bed, his eyes closed, his skin pale. Tristan quickly took a pulse, finding it strong, if not slightly slower than he would have liked. His next action was to examine the wound for sepsis. His eyes widened slightly in astonishment as he looked it over. It was a healthy color, the edges held together by stitches neater than any he had ever left in a patient. 

Christine Daaé gave a small sob, and Tristan turned in time to hear her say, "I've killed him…" 

Quickly, he reassured her that she had not, taking her hand, guiding her fingers to the pulse that beat strongly at Monsieur Angel's throat. She touched her Angel's cheek, his eyes opening in response to the strange connection he shared with the girl. "Christine…" he whispered. 

It was too much for her. She collapsed in a faint, Tristan catching her before she could hit the ground. "Christine," Monsieur Angel called again, his voice full of worry. 

"She is fine, Monsieur, simply exhausted. It seems saving your life took quite a bit out of her." He glanced around the room, looking for someplace to set the young woman down. 

Groaning, the man in the bed moved over. "Put her here. There is no place else." 

It was highly improper to Tristan's mind, but there was no help for it. Carefully, he laid her on the mattress next to Monsieur Angel. Madame Giry stepped in then, putting a pillow under Christine's head, tucking the blankets around both her and her Angel. She brushed a strand of hair out of Christine's face and then ran her hand over Monsieur Angel's cheek. "Rest now, Erik. I will watch over her." 

He caught her hand as she drew back, squeezing it. "Thank you, Cecilié, for all you have done for Christine."

For the first time since he had met her, Tristan saw Madame Giry smile. "You are not the only one who loves her. Now be quiet and let her sleep." When the man closed his eyes, she turned to face Tristan. "Come, I think we can leave them be for the moment." Frowning at the dirty towels on the floor, she gathered them up then raised an eyebrow at the physician, inclining her head toward the door.

Giving one last glance to the unlikely couple in the bed, Tristan followed her from the room.

* * *

Madame Giry led Tristan back down the stairs and into the large chamber that seemed to serve as Monsieur Angel's parlor. Perhaps music room or study would be a better term he thought as he noted the pipe organ and stacks of sheet music, books and artist's supplies piled everywhere. As wondrous as those were, it was the water lapping against the side of the stairs and the small boat tied up near where he and Madame Giry had entered that he found fascinating.

Turning to Madame Giry, who was stuffing the dirty towels into a cloth bag, he asked, "Has there always been a lake under the opera house?" 

"Oui, Monsieur. It was built on marshland that had to be drained for construction. Once it was finished, they let the water return."

"And Monsieur Angel, he has lived here a long time?"

Madame Giry frowned even as she moved piles of paper from two chairs so they could sit. "Over twenty years." She looked toward the bedchamber warily. "Come, sit down, Doctor. It is not healthy to pry too deeply into Erik's affairs."

Gazing longingly at the books stacked in the far corner, he did as she asked, but was unable to keep silent. His curiosity was what had drawn him to medicine, he had always had an insatiable need to know the how and why of everything. And what greater mystery than a man who lived in the shadows under an opera house? "Christine's Angel has a temper, then?"

Madame Giry pressed a hand to her mouth. "Monsieur, please!"

"I'm sorry, Madame, but I feel like an actor in a play in which I have been given only my lines, with no idea of where they go. Mademoiselle Daaé has asked for my help and I have given it—to a man wanted by the police if the Vicomte is to be believed." 

At that, Madame Giry began to cry. 

Tristan shook his head. There was a reason he had never married, and this was it. Somehow, when it came to women, he seemed to always be saying the wrong thing. "Madame Giry, please, don't cry. I have no intention of betraying Monsieur Angel. It's just that I know only enough to be dangerous to him, enough to make a mistake and arouse the Vicomte's suspicions. And he is suspicious enough, believe me."

Removing a lace-edged handkerchief from her sleeve, Madame Giry wiped her eyes. "I'm sorry, Doctor. I explained about the Phantom to the Vicomte the other night, after the Bal Masqué, and you see how well that turned out. His heart was like stone, not a shred of compassion for my Erik."

"I would hear this story, if you could bear telling it again." 

She raised her eyes heavenward and sighed, but she still told him of the gypsy carnival and the small boy locked in a cage, beaten by a brute of a man, forced to show his deformed face to the catcalls and laughter of the crowds. "And so I rescued him, brought him here, and he has lived here ever since. All this—" she gestured at the artwork, the music surrounding them, "—he has taught himself just from observing what goes on in the opera house. He is a genius, Monsieur." 

"And a murderer?" Tristan asked. 

Looking away again, she nodded. "If one believes that there is no one in the world deserving of death. I would have killed the man who kept Erik in that cage if I had not been just a girl. I have seen many horrible things in my lifetime, but nothing as evil as that man."

"And the stagehand, what was his name? Buquet, did he deserve to die as well?" When Madame Giry had mentioned the Phantom, Tristan had recalled the incident from the fall. It had been in all the papers.

"I don't know. Perhaps. He was much too fond of little girls. I was always finding him in the dormitories, telling them frightening stories, or skulking around the dressing rooms. I never caught him with any of them, but that does not mean he didn't try to put his filthy hands on them. Even Madame Buquet does not miss him." She sighed again, and pressed the handkerchief to her eyes. "I know I am making excuses for him, but he has suffered so much, and he truly loves Christine…." Her voice trailed off. "She saved him, you know."

"Yes, I know. I was there," Tristan replied feeling more confused now that he knew Monsieur Angel's story than he had when he knew nothing. 

"No, Doctor, I don't mean tonight. She saved him ten years ago, when he was going mad with the knowledge he was doomed to spend his life alone. He was angry all the time then, at the world for despising him, at me for bringing him here where he felt trapped. He wanted what we all want, a friend, someone to talk to, someone who would listen to him." 

"The same things he wants now—"

"The things he has now, in Christine. When I first brought her here to live, when her father died, she was a lonely, unhappy child. She spent most of her time in the chapel, grieving and praying for her father. Erik heard her crying one day and came to me, wanting to know who she was. When I told him about her father, he realized that here was someone just like him, all alone in the world. He began to sing to her from the shadows, he talked to her, became her secret friend. And Christine, oh, Christine blossomed. She had an Angel of Music looking out for her, as her father had promised." Pausing, Madame Giry wiped at her eyes again. 

Tristan shifted uncomfortably in his chair. "Madame, from your description, their relationship is based on a lie perpetrated years ago." 

"You weren't there." Christine stood at the bottom of the stairs, her eyes flashing indignantly, her whole being trembling with rage. "Our love was not born of a lie, but of a child's wish for someone to love her, and my Angel's dream of someone to love. And love me he does, in spite of the heartache and pain I have caused him. How can I not love him in return?" 

He should have known better. Any woman with the courage to do the things Christine Daaé had done over the past two days would not tolerate aspersions being cast on the depth of her love. For a moment, Tristan felt a pang of jealousy. What he would not have given at one point in his life for a woman such as her, all fire and passion, magnificent in her anger, more beautiful still in the compassion and tenderness she showed her Angel with every look, every touch. No wonder the Angel lost his heart to her. But, alas, Tristan was long beyond the time when he had the mental and physical energy for such a spirited woman. 

Christine put her hand on the stone wall, swaying slightly. Tristan began to rise, feeling something was wrong. She spoke again. "If you wish to know how I feel, why I choose to be here, then ask me. Do not make assumptions about my life." 

In front of her now, his gaze intent on her face, Tristan asked, "How do you feel now, Christine?" 

"Funny," she answered as she began to slide down the wall, "I feel very funny." She landed in a sitting position on the floor, the expression on her face puzzled.

Grabbing her wrist to take her pulse, Tristan could feel tiny tremors rocking her. Her heartbeat was pounding against his fingers, her skin wet with sweat. "Christine," he called to her. 

Her eyelids fluttered. "I'm so tired."

"Christine, when was the last time you ate?" 

Her brow furrowed in concentration. "I don't remember." 

Tristan glanced over his shoulder at Madame Giry who was wringing her hands anxiously. "I need something sweet, now! Fruit, sugar, anything like that."

She moved away for a moment then was back with a basket. "Meg brought them food earlier, but it was then we found out Erik was sick. Christine must have forgotten all about eating in her worry for him." She pawed through the contents of the basket, coming up with a somewhat squashed piece of cake. "It was Jammes birthday. Meg thought Christine might like a piece." Breaking off a bit that was mostly sugary icing, she held it to the girl's lips. "Christine!" At the sound of her name, Christine opened her mouth, and Madame Giry popped the cake inside. 

"You've done this before," Tristan said. 

The woman nodded. "Christine gets dizzy spells if she does not eat." Seeing that Christine had swallowed, she gave her another bite of cake. "Usually she is very good about keeping to her meal schedule, but the past two days…eh!" She shook her head. "I should have been paying more attention."

"It is understandable that you were not. I imagine the Vicomte was running you ragged." 

Christine grabbed Madame Giry's hand. "What has he been doing?" she asked, her mind sounding somewhat clearer after the ingestion of sugar. She took the rest of the cake from the other woman and continued eating, looking back and forth between Tristan and Madame Giry. 

"I have told him that your Angel died after surgery, Mademoiselle. He seemed quite glad of the news, I'm afraid," Tristan said. 

Closing her eyes, Christine sighed. "I have made such a mess of things. Poor Raoul! I told him I would marry him. Now I shall have to break his heart." She looked back toward the bedroom, her eyes filling with tears. "As I broke my Angel's heart not so long ago." Turning her gaze to Madame Giry, she said in a whisper, "He has said things that make me believe the night of _Il Muto_ he was on the rooftop with Raoul and I, hiding. He heard every word I said about him to Raoul, saw me kiss him, saw Raoul declare his love for me." She wrapped her arms about herself, shivering with emotion, feeling her Angel's pain. "I have been such a stupid, foolish girl. I have done nothing but cause hurt to men who wanted nothing more than to love me. I truly deserve neither of them…"

"Do not feel sorry for the Vicomte," Tristan said, unable to keep his dislike of the man from his tone. "He showed no remorse at being told he had killed Monsieur Angel. I do not think he even considers him human. He is a good example of the folly of elevating one man above another solely based on his heritage. A man should be revered for his deeds, not the accident of his birth." 

"Can you stand, Christine?" Madame Giry asked. When the girl nodded, Madame Giry helped her to her feet and led her over to a chair. She went through the basket of food, making up a plate for her. Christine dutifully began to eat. 

Between bites, she asked Tristan, "What will you tell Raoul about me?" 

Checking his watch to find that he had been gone from the upper levels of the opera house nearly three hours, Tristan replied, "I will tell him that you are suffering from exhaustion and nerves. It is close enough to the truth. I recommend bed rest for at least a week, and regular meals. But now I should go give a report to the Vicomte, as he is probably climbing the walls. Let me check on Monsieur Angel once more and then you can lead me back, Madame Giry." 

Christine followed him to the bedchamber, hovering anxiously as the physician checked the sleeping Phantom's temperature and pulse one last time. 

"He should probably sleep the rest of the night. If he wakes up and is in pain, another dose of morphine will not harm him." 

"He hates it," Christine said. "It is a measure of how much he is hurting that he asks for it at all." 

"Probably good to use it sparingly then. Some people come to like it so much that they do not want to give it up. I shall return in the morning." 

"I will find somewhere for you to sleep, Monsieur," Madame Giry offered. "It is the least we can do." 

"Yes, thank you. Shall we go?" 

Christine climbed into the bed, careful not to wake her Angel. "Thank you again, Dr. Jarred. I am truly sorry for all the trouble we have put you through. I do not envy you your conversation with Raoul. He can be quite stubborn." 

Tristan gave her a smile. "As can I, Mademoiselle, when it comes to my patient's best interests." With that, he followed Madame Giry from the room, submitting once again to the blindfold and the long, dark walk back up the stairs.


	8. Waking Dreams

Raoul stared morosely into the cup of tea on the table before him. It had gone cold long ago. Even hot, it had done nothing to ease the knot in his stomach. Resting his elbows on the tabletop, he pressed the heels of his hands into his eyes. Why hadn't Dr. Jarred returned? Could Christine have truly made herself that sick grieving for that creature? 

He shuddered, remembering the feel of his sword sliding though flesh, the initial bit of resistance and then the complete lack of it. He had stood there unmoving, unable to speak, seeing nothing but the spreading pool of blood against the snow. Christine's shouts had brought him back to reality. She was kneeling in that monster's blood, her hands pressing her scarf against his side, the crimson fluid staining her fingers. He didn't think he would ever forget the sight. 

Leaping onto the back of his horse, he had taken off at a gallop but he was barely beyond the cemetery gates before he had to halt the animal. Sliding from its back, he had dropped to his knees, retching into the snow. He had gotten up then, remounted and continued to the police post. By the time he arrived, he had had convinced himself that he had done the right thing, had done what any man would do to protect a loved one. He had no reason to feel guilty. He didn't feel guilty. Except…if Christine died because of a chain of events he had set in motion….

His head hurt. 

The sound of the door to the opera house's kitchen opening made Raoul raise his head. Madame Giry entered first, Dr. Jarred behind her. "How is Christine?" he asked anxiously. 

Setting his medical bag down, the physician pulled out a chair from the table and seated himself. "Suffering from nervous exhaustion. She had not eaten all day, which made her dizzy and weak. I've ordered bed rest for at least the next week." 

"And I will make sure she sticks to it," Madame Giry said from over by the stove. 

"Thank God." Raoul ran a hand over his face. "When can I see her?"

A look passed between Madame Giry and the doctor, one Raoul found irritating. "What? What is it you're not telling me?" Madame Giry pointedly turned her back to him, banging the kettle down on the stovetop. "Dr. Jarred? Christine will be all right, won't she?" 

The physician let out a long sigh. Finally, he said, "No one is ever truly 'all right' after what she's been through. You have to understand, Vicomte, that she's had a tremendous shock. Whatever you may think of the Phantom, for many years he was her best friend."

"But he was just a disembodied voice in the darkness who turned out to be some kind of freak!" 

"That didn't matter to her!" Madame Giry shouted, whirling around to face him. "Christine saw past his face and into his heart. They would have been happy together if you had not come along and turned her head with your 'childhood sweethearts' story and your fine horses and your diamond rings. She was his life, and you took her away from him, then you killed him!" Bursting into tears, she left the room. 

Raoul looked at Dr. Jarred, whose face mirrored the stunned expression Raoul felt on his own. He sighed, and rubbed a hand along the stubble on his chin. "Will Christine recover or not?"

The doctor shrugged, rising to pour his own cup of tea from the ingredients Madame Giry had gotten out before her unexpected departure. "I don't know." A strange, reflective look came over his face as he said, "She did everything she could to save him, and it was all for naught. She blames herself for his death, and that is a heavy burden to bear."

"So what should I do, then? How can I help her?" Raoul asked, frightened that his actions might have emotionally scarred Christine forever. 

Taking a sip of his tea, Dr. Jarred appeared to think carefully about his answer before he spoke. "Give her time and space. Don't pressure her into seeing you if she's not ready. Whatever you thought of the Phantom doesn't matter. He was important to her, and so he should be important to you. If you find you can't keep a civil tongue in your head, then don't speak at all. And if she decides she never wants to see you again…."He didn't finish the sentence. Setting his cup down on the counter, he said, "I will check on her in the morning, and every couple of days after that. Now I must go locate Madame Giry." 

After he left, Raoul laid his head down on the table and wept.

* * *

The Phantom woke to find his face wet with tears. He lay there in the darkness, his dream, the cause of his silent weeping, slowly fading.

He had been with Christine, alone in a great hall with a high ceiling and gilded columns. Mirrors lined both sides of the long room, and music was playing, though there was no orchestra he could see. They were dancing together, her hand in his, his arm around her waist and her other hand at his neck. 

They whirled down the center of the room to a lively waltz, their footsteps echoing a strange rhythm in the vast, empty space. He took his gaze from Christine's beautiful face long enough to catch a glimpse of the hundred Christines and Angels that twirled in the mirrors. He almost didn't recognize the image looking back at him, for his face was perfect, no twisted features, no discolored skin, no mask. Stunned, he glanced down at Christine and found he was suddenly behind her eyes, gazing up at himself.

"This is how I see you," he heard her voice whisper. "This is how I've always seen you."

The tears began anew at the memory, and he turned his head toward her. She was lying on her side with her arm flung across his chest, her cheek pressed against his shoulder, eyes closed in slumber. 

For a moment, he thought he was still dreaming until he reached up to trail his fingers across Christine's cheek. The sudden pain in his side reminded him that he was very much in the real world. He jerked in reaction and let out a hissed curse. 

"Angel?" He had woken Christine. 

"Go back to sleep," he told her. "Everything's fine."

Yawning, she rubbed at her eyes then rose up on one elbow and laid her palm against his forehead. "Fever's down. How do you feel?" 

He could just make out her features in the dim light, the curve of her cheek, the start of a smile upon her lips. "Strangely happy to be in pain, because it means this is real, you are real… **we** …are real." Reaching up, he brushed back a strand of hair from her face.

She closed her eyes for a moment at his touch then opened them, whispering, " **We** are real…" She kissed him, dipping her head so that her lips touched his, warm and soft at first then seeking hungrily as he responded. He wrapped his hands in her hair, gently holding her still as he tasted her mouth, her cheeks, her eyelids, the soft skin of her throat. His injury forgotten, the Phantom went to roll them both over, but instead cried out sharply. 

"Angel?" 

"Damn it." His hand went to the bandage round his waist. It was wet. He swore again. "I think I'm bleeding," he told her. 

Rising, Christine lit several candles then bent over him, helping him sit up. He submitted to her ministrations, sighing in frustration as she undid the bandage. "I hate this." 

"I never would have guessed," she said wryly, glancing up at him, a smile on her face. Despite his irritation and pain, he couldn't help but smile back at her. "I think it's all right. Most of this is from before and is nearly dry. Doesn't look like it's bleeding now." Picking up a bottle from the table, she poured part of its contents onto a clean piece of cloth and washed the wound area with it. 

It stung. His eyes widened and he twisted away from her involuntarily. 

Christine apologized, laying a fresh piece of gauze over the stitches then wrapping a new bandage around him. She straightened, yawning again. "I wonder what time it is." Reaching for his watch on the bedside table, she said, "It's three o'clock, but is it morning or afternoon?"

"Does it matter?" he asked.

She raised her head, and he was caught in her gaze, seeing everything she felt for him shining in her eyes. For a moment, the Phantom forgot to breathe. "No, it doesn't matter," Christine answered, her hand going to his cheek.

He closed his eyes and leaned into the caress, feeling her lips on his forehead, his temple, the place where his right eyebrow should have been…It was too much for him, and he pulled away, shaken. Her confusion was evident on her face, that and the fear that she had in some way injured him. "I'm sorry, Angel," she apologized. "I didn't mean to—" 

The Phantom cut her off with a shake of his head. "You didn't. I just…it's just…." The damn tears began to burn in his eyes again, and he had to look away, struggling to keep what little of his dignity he had left. Christine was blessedly silent while he composed himself, her hand having moved from his face to gently grasp his arm. When he turned back, he found her simply watching him, the love in her eyes undimmed. There were not enough words in the world to express what he felt in that moment, so he cupped her face in his hands, kissing her softly, reverently. 

When they broke apart, Christine whispered, "Oh, Angel—" Whatever else she might have said was lost in the sound of her stomach rumbling. She gave an embarrassed little squeak then laughed, and the Phantom found himself joining in for a few seconds until the action made his side begin to ache. She fussed over him for a moment when she saw him wince, but let him be when she determined it wasn't serious. 

"We should probably eat," she told him, and she left the bedroom for a minute, returning with a basket, which she set on the bed. From it she created a picnic of sorts for them, bread and cheese, slices of cured meat and dried fruit. They ate quietly, both of them still tired from the events of the previous day. The Phantom decided it was probably three in the morning, otherwise Cecilié and the good Dr. Jarred would have returned to check up on them by now. 

Food consumed, Christine blew out the candles and crawled back in bed with him, making herself comfortable tucked in against his right side. "You are very forward, Miss Daaé," he teased gently. 

Rolling onto her stomach, she raised up on her elbows to look him in the eyes. "By virtue of necessity, sir. You are far too much the gentleman to come right out and tell me you would like my arms around you. I'm sparing us the trouble and just doing what we both know we want." She gave him a cheeky grin and kissed his shoulder. 

He shook his head, not knowing whether to laugh, cry, or kiss her back. Christine was no longer the timid, vulnerable child he had loved for so long. She was someone he wasn't sure he knew, a woman forged of flame and steel, of tenderness and courage. The Phantom thought he might love her more than the girl who had once hung on his every word. "Where did you come from?" he asked in a near whisper, his voice breaking. 

Somehow she knew what he meant. "From your love. And from all the time we wasted hiding from each other." She looked away from him for a moment, and he could see the glittering track of a tear as it slid down her cheek. "When I thought you were going to die, both in the cemetery and yesterday, I promised myself that I would not waste any more time doing things the 'proper' way. Fear kept us apart for so long, denied us years of happiness, Angel. I do not want to be unhappy for another second, if it is within in my power to ensure that I am not."

She lay down beside him again, resting her head against his shoulder, her hand on his chest. The Phantom brought his hand up to cover hers, lacing their fingers together. "So, you are happy here with me?" he asked. 

"Happier than I've ever been in my life, I think," she answered, "though what would make me truly ecstatic would be for you to be well, and for us to be far away from Paris and Raoul." 

He found himself asking a question he knew he did not want the answer to. "Were you happy with the boy?"

Christine stirred beside him, moving closer, her fingers tightening around his. "I thought I was. Now I realize I was a bird in a cage, settling for beautiful trappings simply because I had never seen the sky. With you, all the heavens are my world, and I am free to fly."

The Phantom's heart beat faster at her words, but he could not let the matter drop. "Are you certain of that? I am afraid I have lived here so long I have forgotten there are bars to my cage, but it is my prison nonetheless."

Letting go of his hand, Christine touched his cheek, turning his face toward her. "The cage door is open, Angel. Spread your wings and fly away with me. If we do not, then we will end up with the cat here in the cage with us."

"I know," he replied quietly, but the knowledge that they were in danger could not still the fear fluttering in his chest every time he thought of having to leave the opera house. 

Christine's thumb brushed across his lower lip, effectively ensnaring his attention again. "I'm frightened, too, Angel, believe me. But we can make this work; you have to have faith in that. We can find another opera house somewhere in the world in need of our talents. I can only sing and dance, but you…think of all the money a theater would save by hiring you! They would not need a composer, an architect, a costume designer, a vocal coach, a baritone—"

He laughed. "Christine, even I could not do all those jobs at once!"

She leaned in and kissed the tip of his nose. "I know, but I got you to laugh, didn't I?"

Oh, how he loved her. To have her smile at him like that every day, to feel her touch, her kiss…the Phantom would do anything, including leaving the only home he had ever known. "I love you, Christine. I will fly away with you, as far as you want to go." 

She rewarded his vow with a smile and a kiss then laid her head back down on his shoulder and closed her eyes. 

He lay awake a while longer, plotting.

* * *

"Madame Giry, wait!" 

Cecilié paused as she came out of André and Firmin's office, caught red-handed. She shuffled the item she was not supposed to have in her possession to the bottom of the stack of large envelopes she carried. "Yes, Vicomte, what can I do for you?" 

"Please, Madame Giry, I wish to see Christine." His bloodshot eyes pleaded with her, and Cecilié felt a pang of sympathy for him. He looked as though he had not slept in days, nor bathed, and she recalled he had been wearing the same clothes yesterday.

It had been nearly two weeks since the Vicomte and the Phantom had fought at the cemetery. Erik was healing, albeit slowly, using what little time he did not spend resting on writing numerous letters that Cecilié posted for him. Christine had completely recovered from her participation in the events and was spending her hours hiding from Raoul and spoiling Erik. The girl thought nothing of wasting an afternoon lying in bed with him, watching him sleep! 

Cecilié closed her eyes for a moment. She knew Christine was putting off meeting with Raoul because she dreaded hurting his feelings. "I'm sorry, Vicomte, but she still refuses to see anyone besides myself, Meg or Dr. Jarred. I would gladly pass along a note to her, if you have one." 

Raoul frowned. "No, no, I don't." 

"I'm sure Messrs. Firmin and André would not mind if you borrowed pen and paper from them." She inclined her head in the direction of the office. "I shall take it to her when I return from delivering these." She showed him the packages in her hands. 

"Yes, please do that," he replied and headed toward the managers' office. 

She watched him go, shaking her head. It would only be so long before he tired of Christine's stalling and went looking for her. It was time she met with him and told him it was over. Ducking around a pillar, Cecilié extracted the score to Don Juan she had just pilfered from the managers' office from the stack of envelopes. Quickly, she slipped it underneath her shirtwaist, hoping no one would notice her straighter than usual posture before she could sneak down to the cellars with it. 

Going down the hallway, she pushed open the door to the backstage area of the opera house, nearly hitting Christine. "Ah! What are you doing here? Raoul is in the managers' office at this very moment!" 

Frowning, Christine said, "I wanted a proper bath then I was going to get supper for us from the kitchen." 

"Well, hurry up then, before he sees you." The door began to open again, and both Cecilié and Christine heard Raoul's voice just outside. 

"Yes, André, I'll tell her we're all anxiously awaiting her return to the stage." 

Christine's eyes grew wide as she glanced frantically around for a place to hide. Thinking quickly, Cecilié pushed her behind the slowly opening door. "Ah, Vicomte, you have that note for me?" 

"Right here." He handed her an envelope. "Please, Madame Giry, will you tell her how much I miss her, that no matter how she sick she is, even though she does not want to see me, I still love her?"

Cecilié could see Christine biting her knuckles behind the door to keep from making any noise. "Yes, yes, of course I'll tell her. In fact, I will make her write you in return. It's not fair to keep you in the dark this way." 

"Thank you, Madame Giry. I am in your debt." With that, he returned to the hallway. 

She pressed her back to the door as it closed, giving Christine a stern look. "You must write to him, Christine, now, this minute. It is time for this business to end. The sooner we see the back of him, the better for all of us." 

Tears glistening in her eyes, Christine nodded. "You're right. I've been avoiding meeting him not because I'm afraid I can't break our engagement, but because I'm afraid he won't take no for an answer. Raoul does not take failure well." 

Cecilié began walking toward her office, Christine trailing behind. Once there, she handed the girl paper and pen. Scrawling a quick note, Christine folded it and handed it to Cecilié. "Good girl. Now go get your bath and the food. I'll probably see you downstairs later." Withdrawing the sheet music from her dress, she showed it to Christine. 

"You got it? Oh, he'll be so happy!" Impulsively, she hugged the older woman and gave her a kiss on the cheek. With a bounce in her step, she left the office. 

Shaking her head, Cecilié watched her go, then unfolded the note to the Vicomte. It was short and to the point. 

_Meet me on the roof tonight at 7 o'clock._


	9. Twisted Reflection

The Phantom watched as Madame Giry wandered about his lair, her sharp eyes taking in everything. She laid a bundle of papers down on his work desk then entered the bedroom, picking up Christine's bedding from the floor and folding the blankets, all while trying to be quiet. "I'm awake, Cecilié," he finally said, startling her. 

She turned around, her hand on her chest, shaking her head when she saw the smile on his face. "Erik, you are impossible. Sometimes I don't know how Christine puts up with you. Or do you save this side of you only to harass me?" 

"Only for you," he answered with a small laugh then his expression changed. 

Cecilié crossed the room and took a seat on the edge of the swan bed as he sat up slowly, his injury, though getting better, still aggravated him if he moved too fast. "Are you in pain?" she asked sympathetically. 

"No…and yes. What you just said, about Christine putting up with me, I've been thinking on that myself lately. And it hurts…in here," he said, putting his hand over his heart. "I'm a murderer, Cecilié. A blackmailer, an extortionist, and I never felt any regret until now. I always thought the world deserved whatever pain and suffering I gave back in exchange for my own. Now…now I see at the heart of all this beauty–" he waved his hand to encompass all his music, his art, "–nothing but blackness. And I wonder, why does Christine stay with me? If I truly loved her, I should make her leave me, shouldn't I?" 

He turned his face toward Madame Giry, the tears in her eyes matching his own. "Oh, Erik, welcome to the human race. You're finally feeling the last of the great human emotions. Born into hate, you learned to love. And now, you finally know guilt." 

"Guilt?" he asked, frowning. "That's what this ache is?"

She nodded, leaning over to squeeze his hand. "Guilt has ruined more lives than love and hate combined, I think. It will either change you for the better—or destroy you and everything you hold dear." 

"Christine…" he whispered. 

"Talk to her, Erik. Tell her what you've just told me. Give her the chance to show you how she truly feels. I think it will surprise you."

The sound of the portcullis raising signaled Christine's arrival.

* * *

After Cecilié left to speak with Christine, the Phantom got out of bed and dressed for the first time since he had been injured. If he was going to have a serious conversation with Christine, he at least wanted to be attired in something other than pajamas. 

As he dressed, he thought back over the past few days and the things he and Christine had discussed. They had spent hours planning their escape from Paris, starting with the letters he had been writing to opera houses around Europe.

A brilliant idea had come to him that first night, and he had asked Cecilié to get him samples of both Monsieur LeFevre and André and Firmin's handwriting. She had done so without asking what he was up to, but he was certain she suspected. As with most things requiring an artist's hand, the Phantom had picked up forgery rather quickly and was soon turning out letters of recommendation for himself and Christine. So far, he had not heard back in response to his inquiries for a position, but it could take weeks for a reply from the theaters furthest from Paris. 

He buttoned his waistcoat and put his cravat around his neck, remembering the conversation he had had with Christine the night before. 

They had been lying in bed together. Cecilié would have been furious as she and Meg had carried a pallet all the way down to his home for Christine to sleep on. She mussed the sheets up every day then slept in the swan bed with him. He had a feeling Cecilié knew the truth, but kept silent, preferring the illusion of propriety. 

Somehow they had gotten into a conversation about the time Christine had spent with the boy, and while he did not care to hear about the gifts and physical attention the Vicomte bestowed upon her, the Phantom was interested in how the other half lived. 

"I learned a good deal about how life for a noble is very different from ours," Christine told him. She was lying on her stomach, her head resting on her folded arms. "Money and power are everything to them. And there are different kinds of power. Beauty is one kind. If you're beautiful, but lower class, you can marry someone like Raoul." She shuddered and he reached over to stroke her shoulder. 

She rolled onto her side and grasped his hand, holding it to her cheek. "But beauty is very low on the power scale. It eventually fades. Money though, money trumps everything. Even the illusion of money trumps everything. All we have to do to escape from Paris is appear rich and act loud and obnoxious; no one will question us." Snuggling up next to him, Christine closed her eyes. 

The Phantom was left with a question he dared not ask. If money trumped everything and beauty was power, then why was she with him?

He tied his cravat, thinking that perhaps he shouldn't be turning to Cecilié for advice. It could lead to finding out things that he would be happier not knowing. 

When he finally got up the nerve to leave the bedroom and go down the short flight of stairs, the Phantom found Christine had cleared off his worktable and covered it with a red cloth. She had apparently pilfered two place settings of the opera house's best china and a bottle of wine. She was lighting the candles she had placed on the tabletop when the sound of his footsteps made her glance toward him. "Oh! I'm not quite ready!"

"It's beautiful, Christine," he said quietly, touched deeply once again by the simplest gestures of love. He hoped he would never come to take them, take her, for granted. Then he remembered that she might not be there to take for granted after their conversation. Watching her dish out food onto each plate, the Phantom made the decision to keep quiet, to let sleeping dogs lie. Maybe Christine had forgotten what lay hidden behind the Angel of Music's mask. 

Opening the wine, she set the bottle down on the table to breathe then eyed the display. Turning to him, she said happily, "I think we're ready now. Will you join me for dinner, Angel?" Crossing the room to him, she tucked her arm through his, standing on tiptoe to kiss his cheek. 

They sat down to supper. The Phantom stared at the food on his plate then at Christine, knowing that she had done all this out of love for him. It was a love he was feeling more and more he didn't deserve. Any appetite he had disappeared as warring emotions roiled through him: fear, love, shame and the most insidious of all, guilt. He reached for his glass, his hand shaking, and knocked the goblet over, spilling wine into his lap. He cursed. 

Christine jumped up, righting the glass then kneeling to blot at the stain with a napkin. When she looked up at him, he knew she couldn't miss the tension in his face and the fact that he was gripping the arms of the chair so tightly his knuckles were turning white. "Angel," she asked, "is something wrong?" 

His soul was in knots. He couldn't speak, couldn't breathe, couldn't even meet her eyes. 

"Angel?" 

Shoving his chair back, the Phantom leapt to his feet, knocking Christine down in his haste. The shocked expression on her face was like a knife in his heart. He staggered back from her, afraid to touch her, terrified he might hurt her without meaning to. "I'm sorry, I'm sorry…." His voice broke and tears stung his eyes. "Christine…Christine…just go, please, just go." 

Getting to her feet, Christine started toward him, her hand outstretched. "Angel, whatever it is, whatever's wrong, we can fix it."

"I'm what's wrong, Christine!" he cried. "Can't you see that? Why don't you see that? Why do you stay with me?" He hid his face in his hands not wanting her to see him falling apart.

"I stay because I love you, Angel," she answered gently. 

His head came up and he stared at her. _"I kill without a thought, I murder all that's good," he spat. "How can you still love me, when no one ever could?"_

The Phantom turned away from her only to be confronted with his mask-less image in an uncovered mirror. With a roar of pain and rage, he snatched up a candlestick and swung it at his reflection, once, twice, three times. The glass cracked and splintered but didn't shatter. With a low moan, he let the candlestick fall to the ground, his eyes locked on his twisted and distorted visage. 

"Oh…Angel…" he heard Christine whisper behind him. 

The Phantom's gaze shifted to her reflection in the one corner of the glass that was unmarred. Was that pity he saw in her eyes? "You should have let me die at the cemetery." He wasn't aware he had said the words aloud until he saw her expression change. He barely had time to identify the new emotion as fury before Christine grabbed his arm and spun him around so hard he stumbled back against the mirror. He heard several pieces of glass drop to the ground and shatter. 

"Don't you **ever** say that to me again! Don't you even think it!" she yelled, shaking him by the shoulders. 

A jolt of pain shot through his side and the Phantom automatically put his hand to his injury, clenching his teeth to keep from crying out.

"Oh, God, Angel, I'm sorry," Christine cried, horrified by her actions. Sliding her arm around his waist, she led him over to the stairs and helped him sit. Kneeling in front of him, she began to unbutton his waistcoat. 

"Christine—" 

She looked up at him, tears running down her face. "I can't believe I did that. I've hurt you…I would never hurt you."

It tore him up inside to see her crying, to see her blaming herself for something that was entirely his fault. His attack on the mirror had probably done more to cause his pain than she had. He grasped her face in his hands, gently wiping away her tears. "I'm fine, Christine."

"No, you're not." She was pulling the tail of his shirt out of his trousers and anxiously examining his wound. "If you've ripped any of your stitches out—" 

"I haven't. Christine, please." He caught her probing hands with his own. "Please, stop it."

She quit fighting him. Moving to sit beside him, she reached out to grasp his hand, holding on tightly. He could feel her trembling. Taking a deep breath, she seemed to calm down. When Christine finally spoke, her voice was a sad whisper. "Why would you think I should have let you die, Angel?" 

Closing his eyes, the Phantom turned his head away from her disappointed gaze. He had no good answer for her. 

"If you want to know why I saved you at the cemetery, I'll tell you. I saved you because I could." 

He looked at back at her, puzzled by her cryptic words. "I don't understand." 

Bringing their clasped hands up, she kissed his knuckles softly. "All my life, people have made decisions for me. First it was my father, then Madame Giry, and I'm sorry to say it, but yes, you, too. Finally, there was Raoul." She let out a sigh. "Until the cemetery.

"When I saw you lying there, dying, I had a choice to make, one that was mine alone. I could do nothing, and let you die, or I could choose to help you. I don't think I consciously thought I was making a life-altering decision that moment. I just knew that I couldn't lose you." Christine touched his face, making sure she had his full attention. "Some people would say I made the wrong decision–even you." The Phantom closed his eyes briefly in shame as she went on, "I made the only decision I could make, Angel, the only one I could live with. For me, there was no other choice than this, than us. Because if you lived, I could never walk away from you, not knowing that you love me." 

"Christine–" Guilt made his voice tremble, and he was ashamed of his earlier outburst. "Christine, do you truly understand the consequences of what you've done? I am a murderer, an extortionist, a kidnapper and a thief. If the police ever find me, I will go to the guillotine."

Her grip tightened on his hand. "I know. I also know that by my aiding you, I have condemned myself to stand on that platform beside you. I would have it no other way, Angel." She straightened up, took a deep breath then began to sing. 

_"If you think you stand alone, you've got a lot to learn. Because as long as there’s one breath left in me, you’ll always have someone to turn to. You're walking through that storm; there's a whirlwind in your mind. When you need a little shelter, you can run into these arms of mine."_

Holding his hand to her heart, she laid her left hand against his cheek. _"My love is stronger than your pain, stronger than your fear, sweet enough to wash the salt from your tears. Deeper than the waves that break against your heart, when you can't go on any longer, my love is stronger."_

Letting out a sob, the Phantom pulled Christine to him, holding her tightly, whispering broken apologies to her. He still felt that he didn't deserve her, but he was not going to be so foolish as to let her go, not after all she had said and done. "Christine, I love you," he finally managed through his tears, "and if you truly mean to spend the rest of your life with me whatever may come, then will you spend it as my wife?" 

Her arms tightened around him for a long moment then she let go to look him in the eyes. "Oh, Angel, Angel, I want nothing more than to be yours forever, but I can not give you an answer now, not while I'm still betrothed to Raoul." Seeing the disappointment in his eyes, she pressed her lips to his in a long, sweet kiss. When they parted, Christine said, "I am to meet him tonight at seven, on the roof. I will tell him it is over and give him back his ring. You do have it for me to give back to him?" 

The Phantom reached into his vest pocket and pulled out the ring. Placing it in the palm of her hand, he closed her fingers over it then gently kissed her clenched fist. "It must be nearly seven now. Go, Christine. I will await your return, and your answer." 

Kissing him one last time, Christine got into the boat and headed out across the lake. As soon as the portcullis closed behind her, the Phantom put on his mask, picked up his cloak and went through the mirror to the secret passage. There was no way in hell he was going to let her confront that boy alone.


	10. Rooftop Rendezvous

Christine paused before the door that led to the opera house's roof, breathing hard. After mooring the boat, she had run most of the way up from the cellars. Her legs were cramping, her lungs burned, and despite her efforts, she was still late. As she opened the door, she could hear church bells tolling the half-hour.

Raoul was waiting for her, standing in the middle of the roof, gazing out at the Paris night. The moon was full and brilliant, the lights of the city matching the shine of the stars above. At the sound of her footsteps, he turned around, his face lighting up. "Christine! Darling! I've been so worried!" He bounded toward her, throwing his arms around her in an enthusiastic hug she did not return. He did not seem to notice. When he went to kiss her, Christine turned her head, letting his lips land on her cheek. 

He stepped back, holding her at arm's length. "Christine, what's wrong?"

She looked into his anxious blue eyes and was relieved to feel no sudden surge of longing. That had been her biggest fear, that some remnant of whatever emotion she had felt for Raoul would resurface when she was face to face with him again, leaving her in an internal tug of war between the two men. But her heart beat only for her Angel. 

Shrugging out of Raoul's grasp, she said, "I asked you to meet me tonight because I have something important to tell you. I'm sorry I put you off for so long, but I didn't know how to explain it to myself, let alone you." She reached into the pocket of her skirt and withdrew the ring he had given her, the one her Angel had torn from her neck at the Bal Masqué. Taking his hand, she placed the ring on his palm. 

"Christine, what is this? Where did you get this? Didn't that–the Phantom take it from you?"

Nodding, she replied, "He gave it back to me before he died. He–" Christine felt tears welling up in her eyes unbidden at the memory of her Angel lying injured in the snow. "I can't marry you, Raoul."

Raoul's gaze shifted to her from his examination of the ring. "What? What do you mean you can't marry me? There's nothing standing in our way now. The Phantom is dead."

Christine put a hand to her mouth, her tears spilling over. Raoul moved to comfort her, and she backed away from him. "I don't expect you to understand–" she started, but he cut her off.

"I'm sorry for what happened, but I did what I had to do. He was a murderer, a terrorist. He never would have left us alone; he would have haunted us for the rest of our lives. I did it for you, Christine, I was protecting you!" Reaching out, he laid his hands on her shoulders. "I love you."

Realizing that tears were not going to sway him, Christine wiped her eyes then pointedly removed his hands from where they rested. "You deserve a wife who will love you completely, with her whole heart. I am not that woman. My heart belongs to another." 

For a moment, she thought he was honestly going to ask to whom. "To a dead man? Christine, I don't understand. I'm here. I'm real. I want to spend the rest of my life with you. Is that so terrible a thing?" 

"No, it's a very beautiful and honorable thing, if I were some other woman. Please, Raoul, just say you'll honor my wishes." She did not want to hurt him more than she already had. 

"No, I will not. I deserve an explanation. You told me you loved me, you accepted my proposal when that creature was alive. Why is it that things are different now that he is gone? Or is he truly dead?" 

Christine felt her heart stop. Did he really suspect her Angel lived? Or was he simply baiting her? She closed her eyes for a few seconds, taking a deep breath, finding the emotional truth she needed to be convincing. She opened her eyes, but kept them downcast, whispering, "When you left us at the cemetery, Raoul, he was already dying. So much blood, on my hands, my clothes. Did you know that if you spill blood in the cold it steams? I tried and tried, but I couldn't stop it. And he…and he…he was happy. Not to be dying but because the last thing on earth he would see would be my face." 

The tears started again, and she let them fall, tilting her head so that she caught a glimpse of Raoul's uneasy expression. "My Angel told me he loved me. That was all he ever wanted, just to love me, and to know that I thought kindly of him. I looked into his eyes then, Raoul. I looked into his eyes and I saw the other half of my soul looking back at me. All the empty spaces inside of me were filled in that moment, and I knew such joy, such incredible love–when he died in my arms, my heart, my soul went with him and I am once again empty. Only now it's unbearable, because I know what it was like to be whole." Wrapping her arms about her torso, Christine let out a genuine sob, the fear of losing her Angel all too real. 

"Christine…Christine, please let me help you. I love you. I can fill that empty place in your heart, if you'll only let me. Don't leave me. Please, marry me and I know you'll come to love me as I love you," Raoul begged, holding his hands out to her. 

Christine ignored them, moving way from Raoul to stand at the edge of the roof. She looked to her left, toward the statue of Pegasus. Moonlight glittered from a splash of white in the midst of shadows. She turned around, walking back towards the steps to the door, leading Raoul away from the statues. Halfway to the stairs, she stopped and said, "You would come to hate me, Raoul. You would spend years living with a wife who pines for someone else, who calls out another man's name in the heat of passion, when she allows you in her bed at all. Your love isn't strong enough to overcome that. No one's is."

Grasping her by the shoulder, Raoul whirled her around to face him. "It is! I am strong enough, Christine! I can make you forget all about your Angel of Music." 

She barely managed to restrain herself from slapping him. She could not hold onto her tongue. "I will never forget, never!" she hissed. "I will remember until my dying day that you were the man who took my Angel from me! If I were to marry you, it would be only to make your life a living hell, to crush you under the weight of my vengeance every second of every minute of every day! Tell me you want that for the rest of your life! Tell me, and I will give it to you!" she screamed, her fingers curled into claws inches from his neck.

Even Raoul's courage left him in the face of her wrath. "You are mad, Christine! He has driven you mad."

She laughed, a deep, dangerous growl that came from some forbidden place inside her. "Perhaps I am." She raked her fingers through her hair, sending her curls flying everywhere. "What would your family think to see me now? Is the lunatic opera singer a better match for you than the sane one? Because I know how much they loved the sane one," she quipped sarcastically. 

He stared at her for the span of several heartbeats then said, "I think perhaps you are right, Christine. Perhaps it's best if we do not marry." 

She nodded her head. "I concur. Goodbye, Raoul." 

Swallowing, he looked like he was about to say something else, but he simply shook his head, turned and left the roof. 

As the door closed behind him, the relief hit Christine like a physical blow. It was all she could do to remain standing, gulping in great lungfuls of air. She felt her Angel's arms go around her, and she leaned back against him, soaking up his strength, his love. It was over. It was finally over. 

Turning around in his embrace, she looked up into his eyes, seeing the shine of tears. Smiling, she brushed her hand across his cheek. "Yes," she told him. "My answer is yes."

* * *

Never had a word sounded so sweetly in his ears as Christine's "Yes." The Phantom raised his arms to the sky and cried out in jubilation. "Yes! Do you hear that world? Christine said yes!" Grabbing her around the waist, he lifted her off her feet and spun them both around wildly until at last Christine made him stop. 

"You're making me dizzy, Angel, and I will be very cross if injure yourself again," she laughed, her arms wrapped tightly around his neck. He set her down carefully, breathing hard, his side aching but at the moment he didn't care. She tilted her face up toward him and he needed no other hint to brush his lips against hers. Not satisfied with that, Christine grabbed hold of the collar of his cloak, crushing her mouth to his and kissing him with a raw passion that set his whole body to singing like a struck tuning fork.

She was the first to step back, surprise at her own boldness apparent in her eyes. Slowly he reached out to stroke her cheek, the heat of her skin matching the fire burning inside him. "I think perhaps we should consider getting married sooner rather than later," he said with a smile. 

Nodding, she slid her arms about his waist and leaned her head against his chest. He held her to him, resting his cheek against her hair, letting the night wind cool them. "You were amazing, Christine," he said finally. "I have never seen you give a more brilliant performance, especially when he wondered if I still lived. And I honestly though you would rip out his throat there at the end. Where did that come from?" 

Laughing, she replied, _"Like a tiny fragile flower is gently nourished by the sun, your love somehow empowers me to do things I have never done. To break through all these chains, all of my doubts and uncertainties, when your weakest hour falls around you, you can find your strength in me."_

Clasping her hands in his own, his heart and voice rose in harmony with hers. _"My love is stronger than your pain, stronger than your fears, sweet enough to wash the salt from your tears. Deeper than the waves that break against your heart, when you can't go on any longer, my love is stronger."_

The last note still ringing around them, the Phantom kissed her once more then led Christine through the hidden door to the roof and back down to the cellars.

* * *

Raoul left the opera house roof shaken to his core. He had failed Christine. He hadn't been able to break that miserable creature's hold on her while it lived, and now even in death the Phantom's memory was driving Christine insane. 

He stopped halfway down the spiral staircase and sat on the steps, leaning his head against the bars of the railing. "Oh, Christine, I'm so sorry, so sorry." Part of him wanted to run back up to the roof and swear to her he would keep trying to save her, no matter how long it took. The rest of him realized sadly that there probably was no help for Christine. There had been truth amidst the poison of her final words to him. No matter how much he loved her, her hatred would crush his love until his heart was as bitter and hardened as hers was. 

Opening his hand, he stared at the diamond ring that sat on his palm. He should have known their love was doomed from the moment she chose to wear it around her neck in secret rather than proudly on her finger. Why had he been so blind? He should have taken her from the opera house the instant the Phantom had returned, the second he had known the Phantom was a living, breathing being, rather than a figment of Christine's imagination. In his hesitation to act, he had now lost Christine to a ghost.

Wiping at the wetness on his cheeks, Raoul started to get to his feet when he heard Christine's voice raised in song. He closed his eyes, letting the sweet, pure notes wash over him. He couldn't make out the words, but it didn't matter. The sound was as wonderful as the first time he had heard it. 

Another voice joined hers, a man's voice! Deep and full of emotion, it blended perfectly with Christine's, the beauty of their combined harmony making him shiver and raising the hair on the back of his neck. 

_"…My love is stronger…."_ The final note echoed down the stairwell, and Raoul realized he had been standing there mesmerized when he should have been racing up the stairs. 

By the time he threw open the door to the roof, Christine was gone, and the hard-packed snow showed no footprints. Raoul stood there shaking his head, wondering if he had imagined the man's voice. It wasn't until he had returned to the interior of the opera house and was walking down the hallway outside the dressing rooms that he remembered where he had heard the voice before. 

It had been the night of the gala, the night he had been reunited with Christine. The same strong, powerful baritone had been coming from behind the locked door of Christine's dressing room.


	11. Of Trysts and Telegrams

By the time they reached the first level of the basements, the Phantom was feeling the effects of ascending and descending the heights of the opera house. His injury throbbed, and he had a stitch in his good side. Breathing was an effort. He found himself gripping Christine's arm for support. 

"Angel?" she asked as he stumbled.

He looked down at Christine, her face wavering in his vision in the gaslight. "I am not as well as I would like to think I am," he admitted.

Christine put his arm over her shoulders and he gratefully rested some of his weight on her. She led him a little ways down the corridor and into the deserted chapel. Only a few candles were lit, making the shadows deep along the walls of the room. Following Christine to the niche with the stained-glass angel window, he sat down awkwardly on the window seat, hoping he would be able to get up again. 

Taking a seat on his right, Christine touched his left cheek briefly. "No fever," she announced. 

He smiled at her, turning his head to kiss her fingertips. "I'm just tired." 

"Too much excitement for one day," she replied, lacing her fingers with his and scooting over so that she was pressed against his side. 

He slid his arm around her, pulling her even closer, planting a kiss on her curls. She turned toward him slightly. Her hand came to rest on the back of his neck, her fingertips kneading the tight muscles there as she touched her lips to his. This time he was the one to push the boundaries, biting her lower lip gently then tracing the outline of her mouth with his tongue. She shuddered against him, sighing quietly before clamping her fingers on the back of his head, holding him still while she explored the uncovered side of his face with her lips. 

She was nipping at his earlobe when the sound of footsteps and whispers from the hallway froze them in fear. The only other exit from the room was through the brass gate in the opposite wall. They were trapped. Her gaze met his for a split-second as she hissed, "Trust me." Then the hand on the back of his head was pressing his face against her chest. 

"Oh…yesssss…" she moaned dramatically. If his mouth hadn't been smashed against the soft skin of her left breast, the Phantom would have laughed out loud. 

A startled squeak came from the direction of the doorway. "Oh! Sorry! Didn't know anyone was down here–we'll just find another place to–sorry!" There was the scuffle of feet moving away from the chapel, then all was silent again, save for the soft rasp of Christine's breathing. 

The Phantom kissed the skin beneath his lips gently. Christine let out a small whimper, her fingers pressing into his scalp even through his wig. "Please, oh please…." He lifted his head slightly, trailing his lips along her collarbone, the curve of her shoulder, the white flesh of her throat. He nuzzled her cheek, inhaling the faint scent of vanilla and roses that clung to her hair. 

He raised up enough to look into her eyes. They were bottomless pools of glistening night in the faint candlelight. "Oh, Christine," he whispered, dropping one last kiss on her lips before sitting up. It took all the self-control he had to let go of her. 

She moved away from him to the opposite end of the window seat, seemingly as shaken as he was. "That was…that was…."

"Too close?" he offered. 

Her tongue darted out to wet her lips and he swallowed hard at the sight. "In more ways than one," she finally answered, her gaze going to the door. "I had forgotten this is a frequently used trysting place."

"I hadn't." The words just slipped out. 

Christine looked back at him, her eyes widening. He cringed internally, awaiting a tongue-lashing like the ones he had used to receive regularly from Cecilié regarding his voyeuristic tendencies. Instead, she gave a very unladylike snort of laughter. "Oh! Oh, that is very amusing! I thought Meg and I were the only ones who went around spying on people." She raised an eyebrow at him. "Come to think of it, you've been spying on me for years, haven't you?"

The Phantom felt his face burning. "Yes," he finally replied, "but I never–not when you were—" His throat seemed to close up on him and the words came out as a scratchy whisper, "You were my friend–I couldn't do that to you–even though sometimes…sometimes I wanted to." He turned his face away from her, wanting the ground to open up and swallow him, to make this awful, awful feeling, this damn ache of shame and guilt, go away.

Her dress rustled as she shifted position and he felt her hand come to rest on his arm. "Angel," she said quietly, "Angel, look at me." He shook his head. She moved again, her arm going around his neck as she pressed her cheek against his mask. "I love you. Why would your desire for me change that?" 

Letting out a shuddering breath, he said, "Because I had no right. It wasn't proper to—to want to see you undressed–to fantasize about what I would do if—" He stopped, realizing he was only getting himself in deeper. 

Christine sat back a bit, her hand moving to the side of his neck, stroking the skin just underneath his ear. "I fantasized about you all the time. About what you looked like, how old you were, what color eyes you had, what kind of life we would have if you ever rescued me and took me away from here. A child's fantasies, Angel." 

"But I am not a child. I should have—" He didn't know what he should have done. "I'm sorry."

She took hold of his hand, lifting it so that she could lean her head against it. "So what would you do?" she asked, laying his hand against the warm skin just below her throat. "Because I am not a child any longer, Angel. I would have you kiss me and touch me and lie with me as my husband." 

He finally dared to look at her. Her gaze was fixed on his face, both of her hands holding his to her chest, her fingertips stroking over his knuckles. Swallowing, the Phantom wet his lips, then swept his fingers slowly, sinuously from the base of her throat to where the fabric of her dress started across her bosom. Christine exhaled softly, her eyelids half-closing. 

He was leaning in to kiss her when the click of boot heels on stone reached both their ears. Getting to his feet, the Phantom helped Christine up. Without a word, they crossed the chapel as one, Christine going through the brass gate first with him right behind her. He started off toward the lair, but Christine stood just to the side of the entrance to the chapel, watching through the gate. He moved back in time to see the Vicomte de Chagny enter the chapel, glance once around the now empty room and leave. 

Christine turned toward him, a questioning look in her eyes. He shrugged then nodded in the direction of the cellars. He had no idea why the Vicomte would have come to the chapel save to look for Christine, and why Raoul would want anything to do with her after her rooftop performance, the Phantom could not guess. Joining hands, they descended the rest of the way downstairs in silence.

* * *

When they reached the edge of the lake, Christine forestalled any protest from the Phantom regarding who was going to be poling the gondola back to the lair. She simply picked up the staff and told him, "Get in the boat." It was a testament to his exhaustion that he followed her command without question. She resolved to feed him and put him to bed as soon as they arrived home. Realizing she was beginning to think like a wife already, Christine giggled. 

Her Angel leaned back to peer up at her. "You are in a very strange mood tonight, Christine." 

"A very good mood." She laughed again, and if she had been on dry land, she would have done a little pirouette. "The past is finally in the past, and we have nothing to look forward to but better and brighter things." 

"So the boy showing up in the chapel does not worry you?" he asked.

Christine planted the pole in the water and pushed, twisting slightly at her hips so the boat glided smoothly through a turn. Letting out a sigh, she frowned. "Worry me? No. Irritate me, yes. He is persistent to a fault. Though why he should be looking for me after I broke our engagement, I do not know. No one saw us, did they?" 

Her Angel shook his head. "No, only the couple who walked into the chapel, and I doubt they could have seen our faces. Do you know who they were?"

She tried to remember the voices. "Francine from the ballet corps, and probably her new beau from the chorus—George. Neither of them would start up a conversation with Raoul, and he does not deign to speak with members of the company."

The Phantom was silent for several minutes after that. Finally, he said, "Perhaps Cecilié or Meg can find out why he was there. One can never be too cautious, and his presence was too much a coincidence for my liking." 

A few minutes later, Christine was poling the boat into the lair. He got out first, tied the small craft up, then helped Christine off. As soon as her feet touched the ground, she slid her arms around his neck and kissed him. "I love you," she whispered when she finally pulled away. 

He was about to respond when the mirror leading to the secret passage sprang open, and Madame Giry appeared. Christine let go of him, but did not move from his side.

"Ah, you're here." She looked back and forth between the two of them before her gaze settled on Christine. "You spoke with the Vicomte?" 

Christine nodded. "It's finished." She slid her arms around the Phantom's waist. "My Angel has asked me to marry him, and I have told him yes."

"Oh, Erik!" Madame Giry exclaimed giving the startled Phantom a kiss on the cheek. "And Christine, my dear, sweet, wonderful girl! I know you two will be so happy together." She hugged Christine and kissed her as well. "Oh! I almost forgot the reason I came down here!" 

Reaching inside her shirtwaist, she pulled out two envelopes. "I have a note for you, Erik, from Tristan." The Phantom raised an eyebrow at her use of Dr. Jarred's first name, but took the envelope without comment. "And for you, Christine, a telegram."

Christine took the small envelope from her, turning it over in her hands. "Who would be sending me a telegram?" 

"Open it, my dear, and find out," Madame Giry advised, a touch of exasperation in her voice. 

With an anxious glance at her Angel, Christine tore open the envelope and removed the contents. Unfolding the yellow sheet of paper, she said, "It's from Italy! 'Received your letter of inquiry stop Will be in Paris on the 18th stop Will wire when I arrive regarding time and place for audition stop Am also interested in meeting M. Noir for position of artistic director stop'. It's signed 'Gregorio Donato, Teatro de Fenice'! Oh, Angel!" she cried excitedly. 

He smiled at Christine, but when he spoke his tone was subdued. "You shall have to rehearse, Christine, and we shall have to decide what you will sing for your audition." 

Confused by his lack of reaction to the news, Christine asked, "Angel?" 

Before she got anything else out, Madame Giry interrupted them. "Erik, the note from Dr. Jarred." 

Opening it, he said, "He will be here tomorrow morning to take my stitches out. Cecilié, can either you or Meg bring him down here?" 

Madame Giry shook her head. "I am teaching the new choreography tomorrow. Both Meg and Christine have to be there as well." She gave Christine a stern look.

"Very well." Walking over to his worktable, the Phantom quickly jotted a note and gave it to her. "Send this to him. I'll meet him at the gate on the Rue Scribe."

"I'll have this sent to him tonight," she said. "Christine, I will see you for ballet class in the morning. Good night—and behave," she admonished with an uncharacteristic smirk. 

Once the mirror closed behind her, the Phantom sat down on the steps. Taking off his mask, he rubbed his face. Christine took a seat beside him, the telegram still clutched in her hand. "Angel, are you all right?" she asked. 

He nodded slowly. "I'm tired."

She slid her arm through his and leaned her head on his shoulder. "Is that why you weren't very excited by the telegram?" She felt him tense. Letting go of the telegram, she brought her right hand up to stroke his shoulder. "Does it frighten you?" she asked quietly. 

Exhaling slowly, he looked out across the lake. "It terrifies me," he finally whispered. "I'm sorry, Christine." He swallowed audibly, clenching and unclenching his fingers. "I love you so much, I want so much to be with you, and I know that we'll never be safe unless we leave here, but…I do not think the world has changed greatly from the last time I lived in it."

Christine put her arm around his neck, hugging him. "Perhaps the world is not so different, but you are. You are no longer that scared little boy anymore, just as I am not the lonely little girl you heard crying in the chapel so many years ago. We are both better, stronger because we have each other. And we are not alone. We have Madame Giry, and Meg and even Dr. Jarred on our side."

"Ah, yes, with that army supporting us, how can we fail?" he replied cynically. 

She shook him gently. "Angel—"

"Yes, yes, I'm trying to remember to be good and kind to others, but frankly, the only person I want to be good and kind to right now is you." He squeezed her tightly, before whispering. "I will try, Christine. I promise I will try." 

Christine stroked his face, kissing his cheek softly. "I know you will, Angel. And whatever happens, I will still love you." She hugged him once more, then got to her feet, holding her hand out to him. "Come to bed, my love. Tomorrow I will brave the lioness in her den, and ask La Carlotta about what kind of man is Signor Donato."

Taking Christine's hand, her Angel followed her up the stairs.


	12. The Doctor's Visit

At precisely ten a.m., Tristan opened a small iron gate on the Rue Scribe side of the Opera Populaire. Ducking his head, he entered the darkness apprehensively, hoping Cecilié's directions were correct. He pulled the gate shut behind him, wincing at the loud screech of the hinges. When the noise died away, all he could hear was his own anxious breathing and the steady drip of water in the distance. 

The sound of metal rubbing against itself made him jump as a light appeared in the middle of the air barely a foot from his face, blinding him. It took a few seconds of panic before he realized that the noise had been the dark shutter on a lamp being raised, thus the illumination. When his eyes finally adjusted, he made out the white half-mask of Monsieur Angel behind the light. 

"Shall we?" M. Angel said. Turning, he led the way into the bowels of the theater, Tristan hurrying slightly to catch up after his initial surprise. 

"Where is Madame Giry?" he asked as he came alongside the other man. 

"Teaching. Apparently there is some new dance Meg and Christine have to learn before Friday's performance." There was no mistaking the disdain in his voice, though Tristan wasn't sure if it was for the dancing, or whatever new opera was being put on. 

"Um…" he said, searching for a topic of conversation. Everything he had prepared had been for Cecilié's ears. "Don't you want to blindfold me?" 

"Cecilié assures me you are worthy of my trust and Christine thinks you should be nominated for sainthood for all that you've done for us. I'm not so sure I trust her judgment, though, seeing as she has agreed to marry me. Please do not make liars out of them."

"No, no I wouldn't," Tristan said. "And congratulations."

M. Angel paused to run his fingers along a crack in the wall. There was a soft click, and a door opened. "Thank you. After you."

Tristan went through the door and found himself standing in the middle of a wide spiral staircase. He had never seen it before, but knew he would find it very familiar if he closed his eyes. M. Angel began to descend, and the doctor again had to hurry to keep up. "I take it you are feeling better?" he asked. 

"Better yes, completely well, no. I have no stamina. Last night I climbed to the roof and back down again, and was nearly done in. Christine had to help me part of the way back." He frowned. "Please tell me that will pass." 

"Yes, of course it will, but you have to give it time, Monsieur. You are recovering from a serious injury. Have you followed my orders at all, resting as I told you to?" 

The other man sighed as they came to the bottom of the staircase. "I have made an attempt at it. But I am not used to inactivity and too much rest makes me more tired, if that is possible." He opened another hidden door by pushing on a section of stonework. A whole section of the wall pivoted and Tristan followed him along a much narrower hallway, this time in silence. 

After several minutes of walking, M. Angel opened a final door, and they entered his domain through the mirror. No longer needing the lantern, he blew it out and set it down on a table. "Where do you think would be the best place to do this, Doctor?" 

Glancing around the room, Tristan's gaze settled on a tall, sturdy looking table. "Perhaps you could sit on that," he suggested, inclining his head in the table's direction. 

Nodding, M. Angel cleared off the top of the table, then sat down. He unbuttoned his shirt while Tristan opened his medical bag and removed the few items he would need. When he turned back, M. Angel had taken off his shirt and was watching Tristan, an unsettled look on his face. "I assure you, Monsieur, that this will be far less painful than having the stitches put in." 

Scissors in hand, Tristan bent down and began snipping the threads. "Mademoiselle Daaé did a most admirable job. You will barely have a scar." Taking up a small pair of forceps, he began to pull out the cut threads. Every once in a while, M. Angel would flinch but otherwise he showed no reaction. 

Finishing, Tristan straightened up. "It looks like it's healing very well. No more signs of infection. If you would follow my advice and rest when you are tired, then slowly work back to your former level of activity, you should be perfectly sound." 

"Save for this," M. Angel replied, gesturing at the mask-covered side of his face as he shrugged his shirt back on. 

Tristan was at a loss at how to reply to that, or even if a reply was wanted. He opened his mouth to speak, but M. Angel cut him off. 

"I have never wondered much about the cause of my affliction. I was born with it, kissed by the devil, or so some have said. Wondered about the why, yes, but not the how. But now—" His gaze roamed the room, coming to rest on a drawing Tristan recognized as being of Christine. "Now Christine has agreed to marry me and with marriage there comes the possibility of children. I would not wish upon any child the agonies I have suffered." He looked back at Tristan, tears in his eyes. "Tell me the truth, Dr. Jarred. Could a child of myself and Christine end up with a face like this?" He tore off his mask, and Tristan was hard-pressed not to take a step backwards in reaction to the violent motion. 

Instead, he moved in, asking quietly, "May I examine you more closely?" 

"Certainly," M. Angel replied. Reaching up, he removed his black wig. "Have a good look, take as long as you want." 

The raw pain in his voice made Tristan wince. Knowing, however, that nothing he could say would change the way M. Angel felt, he simply did his job, peering closely at the discolored and thickened flesh, running his fingers gently over the bumps and ridges. It was as he suspected; an overabundance of capillaries gave the skin its bright color, while a tangled mass of larger veins caused the distortion of his features on the right side of his face. Finally, he stepped back and asked his questions. "Does it pain you at all, Monsieur?" 

"No." He kept his face averted from Tristan's, his gaze on his feet. 

"Has it changed any over the years, gotten better or worse, a different color?" 

"No." 

"Any headaches, seizures, vision problems?" 

M. Angel seemed to consider that question carefully. "I have headaches occasionally, but nothing that has ever seemed to me to be more than a normal person would suffer. Never have I had a seizure and my vision is fine." 

Pulling up a chair, Tristan sat down, signaling the examination was at an end. After a moment's hesitation, M. Angel got off the table and found a chair as well. Once he seemed more comfortable, after replacing his wig and mask, Tristan said, "I've seen similar abnormalities in my years as a physician, most of them present from birth, some of them far more severe than yours, though I know that is hardly any consolation. I have never seen the condition in siblings or passed from parent to child. The chances of a child of your union sharing your affliction are probably very close to zero." 

Tristan watched as M. Angel processed that information, the masked side of his face revealing nothing, the uncovered side flicking rapidly through apprehension, relief and finally joy. "Thank you," he said at last, his voice heavy with emotion. "I do not think the thought of having a child that looked like me bothers Christine in the slightest, but I…." He looked away from Tristan, surreptitiously wiping at his eyes. 

Hoping to change the subject to something more pleasant, Tristan asked, "So when is the wedding?"

"It had better be soon," M. Angel replied, the trace of a smile on his lips. "Cecilié has agreed to speak with the priest of the Church of the Madeleine on our behalf. Christine would be very pleased if you would agree to attend."

"Of course. Send me a note with the date and time and I will be there to share in your joy," Tristan replied. 

He had expected his response to please M. Angel. Instead, it seemed to make him uncomfortable, as he shifted in his chair, rubbing his hands together in a nervous gesture the doctor had never seen from him before. "Dr. Jarred," he began. 

"Tristan, please. I think we are long past the need for formalities."

"You are probably correct, especially in light of what I am about to ask you." He glanced down at the ground, taking a breath before saying, "I have few acquaintances and even fewer friends. I am hoping I can count you among the latter." He looked the doctor in the eyes. "Tristan, would you be willing to stand up for me at my marriage to Christine?"

The request startled Tristan, but there was no way he could refuse, not with the question he had been waiting patiently to ask M. Angel. "I would be honored, sir, to be your best man." 

A look of relief came over M. Angel's face and he held out his hand toward Tristan. The doctor shook it firmly then said, "I now have a request of you, Monsieur." 

"Enough with 'Monsieur'." He leaned back in his chair, a thoughtful expression on his face. "I seem to be in need of a new identity, though I have not made up my mind completely at this moment who I shall become. Call me Erik, as Cecilié does, for the time being."

"Very well, Erik. It is about Cecilié that I wish to speak to you." Suddenly Tristan was the one who was uncomfortable. "She and I have been speaking, when I have come to attend to you and Christine, and she has told me that you are the closest thing she has to family save Meg. So I thought I should come to you and ask your permission—" 

"Ask my permission for what?" Erik looked quite amused by Tristan's nervousness.

"—Ask your permission to court her," he finished. 

The other man stared at him for a few seconds, then threw back his head and laughed. 

"What is it that you find so hilarious, Monsieur?" Tristan asked coldly, unsure if he was being insulted.

"Oh, oh…It is not you, sir," Erik gasped between peals of laughter. "It is this whole incredible situation I find myself in. All I ever wanted was for Christine to notice me, to look upon me and not run away screaming. Instead, I find myself engaged to be married, with a sister, a niece and a possible brother-in-law. You would have to have lived twenty years in solitude as I have to know how much that amuses me." He bent over, still laughing. "You may most certainly court Cecilié, if she will have you." He sat back up, wiping tears from his eyes.

"I appreciate your support," Tristan answered. "Now I must be getting back to my surgery, and I had hoped to see Cecilié for a moment before I left." 

Still laughing, Erik got to his feet. "Yes, yes, I'll take you. I would like to be the one to give Christine the good news that you will attend our wedding." Picking up his lantern, he lit it from one of the many candles scattered around the lair. He opened the mirror then stepped through, Tristan on his heels.


	13. Meetings

Christine waited until the rest of the dancers had all gone to lunch before she made her way down the hallway to La Carlotta's dressing room. The door was open, but she knocked out of courtesy, stifling her urge to giggle at the sudden thought of her Angel spying on Carlotta through the mirror. 

The diva was lounging on a sofa, her white poodle on her lap, the black one chewing on a slipper on the floor next to her. "Jes, who is eet?" she called out, not bothering to look. 

"Christine Daaé, Signora." 

Having just taken a sip of champagne, La Carlotta sputtered and choked at Christine's name. Her maid swiftly handed her a handkerchief, and the diva blotted her chin before turning around. "Jou! Why jou want to see me, eh? Jou think jou going to take my place tomorrow night? I don't care what your lover the Vicomte thinks but I will be singing! Not jou!" 

Entering the dressing room, Christine gave Carlotta her best curtsy. "No, Signora, I do not want to take your place, tomorrow or any other night. And the Vicomte is not my lover." 

Carlotta stuck her lips out in a pout, twirling her wineglass in her fingers. "Why jou not want to sing anymore?"

Tired of holding her curtsy, Christine sat down on a footstool. The black poodle immediately jumped into her lap and began licking her hand. "I want to sing, Signora, but you are the star of the Opera Populaire. If I want the kind of successful career you have, I must seek a position with another opera house."

The diva seemed to consider that, taking a swallow of her wine. "So why jou telling me this?"

"Because I would beg your advice. You have sung all over Europe, while I have never been outside Paris. I had hoped you would tell me of the great theaters you've performed in, and of the people there. I would like to go somewhere I will be appreciated, and where I will be safe. I have heard stories, Signora, about theater owners and managers who would think nothing of taking advantage of an orphan such as me, alone in the world with no one to protect her." 

"And jou would be right to believe such rumors. Men are pigs. Pah!" She waved her now empty glass and her hairdresser filled it at once. "So, I answer jour questions, and jou leave here."

"Yes, Signora. I was thinking of your home country of Italy. I hear it is so beautiful, with many great opera houses. So many wonderful operas were created there." She gave Carlotta a starry-eyed, dreamy look. 

"Ah, jes. La Scala, the Teatro Comunale in Bologna, the Teatro Del L'Opera in Roma, the Gran Teatro La Fenice. I have sung on all their stages, some as a chorus girl, some as la diva. About which do jou wish to know?" She waved her hand in an extravagant gesture, sloshing wine onto the carpet. 

"Oh, Venice, city of canals. I've seen paintings of it at the Louvre. It looks so wonderful, like a fairy tale. I would die to be able to live and sing there." She leaned forward eagerly, hanging on Carlotta's next words.

The singer sniffed disdainfully. "Fenice, ha. Jou can do better than Fenice. Signor Donato, the owner, he is rich as sin and as ugly too. Horrible, horrible man, he is deaf as a stone. I audition for him once. I give the best audition in my life, and he hire someone else. He says I sing the notes beautifully, but I have no passion." She tossed her head, snorting. "Can jou imagine that? I, who am the most passionate about everything!" 

Christine frowned in sympathy. "Well, I most certainly will not apply there, then." Having gleaned the information she wanted, she forced herself to listen to another fifteen minutes of Carlotta's theater stories. Finally Christine set the poodle aside and got to her feet. "Thank you so much, Signora. You have given me much to think about." 

"Jes, jou need any more help, any more advice, jou come see Carlotta, eh?" 

"Of course." Giving a little bow, Christine left the dressing room, resisting the urge to skip down the hallway. 

As she crossed the empty stage on the way back to the rehearsal hall, she heard a familiar voice whisper her name. "Angel?" she hissed back, alarmed that he was upstairs. Again the voice called to her. It was coming from the orchestra pit. Walking to the edge of the stage, she looked down. A hand beckoned to her from under the stage. "Are you insane?" she asked, but climbed carefully down into the pit anyway. 

The Phantom was waiting for her in the shadows, a mischievous smile on his face. "I am quite insane." He lifted Christine off her feet in a hug. "Insanely happy." Setting her down, he gave her a kiss that did amazing things to her insides. He let go of her, but she put her hand on the back of his neck, drawing him in for a second, deeper kiss.

When they finally separated, he sat down on a chair, pulling her onto his lap. She gave a little cry of surprise, but wrapped one arm around his neck and ran the other hand over his cheek. "So just why are you in such a mood?" she asked. "What did Dr. Jarred tell you?" 

Her Angel made a growling noise and nipped at her throat. "He says that I will soon be completely well. And he has agreed to attend our wedding, as my best man." 

"Oh, Angel," she sighed, hugging him once more, knowing how much courage it must have taken him to ask for the favor. "You see, the world isn't so horrible after all." 

"Perhaps not." He pressed his lips to the bare skin of her shoulder, making her shiver. "I had forgotten how delectable you look in your tutu." His fingers slid under her hair at the nape of her neck, tracing sensual little patterns over her flesh. 

Christine leaned her forehead against his shoulder, reveling in the feel of his hands on her, in the joy she could sense suffusing his whole being. "Cecilié is going to go see the priest tonight, so hopefully we should have a wedding date soon. Though I sense it will not be soon enough for you unless it is five minutes from now." 

He laughed then lifted her chin so he could look into her eyes. "Tristan has assured me that the chances of our children being cursed at birth as I was are virtually none. That is why I am so happy."

She touched his face again, tracing the outline of his lips with her fingers. "You know that did not matter to me, but I am glad your worries have been erased." He nibbled at her fingertips as she said, "I have good news for you as well. I have spoken to La Carlotta regarding Signor Donato. According to her, he would not know true talent if it bit him. As we are speaking of La Carlotta's opinion, I think we can safely say that Signor Donato is a man of exceptional taste and musical knowledge." 

"But whether he is open-minded enough to employ a freak of nature is still unknown," the Phantom replied, a tinge of bitterness coloring his words. 

Christine held him tightly, blinking back the tears of frustration pricking at her eyes. If only the rest of the world could see him as she did, could know his genius, could know all the beauty inside of him waiting for a chance to burst into bloom. 

Footsteps sounded on the stage above them. "They're returning from lunch," Christine told him. "I have to go back." She sat up straight. 

Her Angel sighed. "I know. I shall miss you all afternoon, as I have missed you all morning." He cupped her cheek in his hand, leaning forward to brush his lips tenderly over hers. 

When she finally rose from his lap several kisses later, she hugged him once more then said, "Go pick out some audition pieces for me. And you must put together a portfolio of your work. That will keep you so busy that the time will fly by." 

"Until tonight, Christine," he said, "I love you." With that, he blended into the shadows at the back of the orchestra pit. She heard the faint creak of a trap door opening and closing, and he was gone.

Inhaling deeply, Christine allowed herself a long shiver. Her Angel wasn't the only one eagerly awaiting their wedding–and their wedding night. Straightening her dress, she headed for dance class.

* * *

Raoul entered the theater proper in time to see Christine climbing awkwardly out of the orchestra pit. Hurrying up the aisle, he held out his hand to her. 

"Thanks," she said, not looking up until she was standing on the theater's carpet. When she did, she snatched her hand away as if he had been a hot stove. "Raoul! I didn't realize it was you." 

"And if you had, you would have spurned my aid?" he asked, looking closely at her. Her face was flushed, possibly from exertion, her lips slightly swollen as if she had just been kissed. "What were you doing down there anyway?"

She put a hand to her hair, smoothing it down. "I dropped my barrette. I'm lucky I found it. It's very dark down there." Christine turned to leave, but he caught her arm.

"A question before you go," he pleaded. She gave him an impatient glare, but paused. "Last night, after I left the roof, I thought I heard singing. Your voice, and a man's."

The look she shot him said plainly that she thought he was delusional. "Once you left, I was the only one up there. And yes, I sang a song for my Angel in heaven. I feel closer to him on the roof. Is that a crime now?"

Slightly embarrassed, Raoul shook his head. "No, no, I just thought I was hearing things so I went back up to the roof. You weren't there. No one was, yet you did not pass me when you came down." 

She gave him a slight smile. "There is more than one entrance to the roof. I was upset and did not wish to run into you again. I simply left by a different door than I had entered. Now if you'll excuse me, I'm going to be late for rehearsal." 

Unable to come up with a reason to detain her any longer, Raoul let her leave. As she climbed the stairs to the stage, she paused, taking the barrette from her hair. Twisting her long curls in to a knot, she pinned them up. He couldn't help but stare at the elegant line of her back, her bare neck and shoulders. As she walked away, he noticed a bruise marred the creamy perfection of her skin, just where her neck joined her shoulder. It was small and purple, and its location gave rise to the notion that it could have been caused by an enthusiastic lover's kiss. 

Raoul shook his head. His imagination was running away with him. Christine was a dancer. They were always getting bumps and bruises. Still, he would swear he had heard a man's voice on the roof, the same voice he had heard months ago in Christine's dressing room. If Dr. Jarred had not told him the Phantom was dead—

No, he wasn't going to think about the situation anymore. Christine wanted nothing more to do with him, and who was he to say that she wasn't right in her decision? Clearly her grief for the Phantom had affected her personality. He left the stage area, heading toward the opera house's kitchen. 

Once he arrived, he got a cup of tea and some biscuits and found a chair in the corner. Why had he even bothered to come here? There was nothing here for him any more; the opera house meant nothing to him without Christine. The sound of her name being spoken caused him to lift his gaze from his teacup. 

At the next table sat two women he recognized as part of Carlotta's little entourage. The plump, rosy-cheeked woman was her maid, and the thin one with the strange doughnut shaped hair knot was her seamstress, if he remembered correctly. 

"Christine Daaé came to see the mistress?" the seamstress asked. "Oh my, I don't believe it."

"Believe it," replied her companion. "She came to ask Carlotta about other theaters. She is planning on leaving the Opera Populaire." 

A young man with bushy hair bent over between the gossiping women. "Did you say Christine Daaé? Francine says she has been acting very strangely ever since the Bal Masqué. She no longer sleeps in the ballet dormitories, moved all of her belongings out of there last week. In fact, last night we were passing by the chapel and saw her with a man, if you get my meaning." 

"Who?" the maid asked eagerly, her cheeks flushing brighter in her excitement. 

The man shook his head. "I'm afraid I do not know. It was dark, and I would not have known who the couple were, save for Francine recognized Christine's voice. The man, he said nothing, as his lips were otherwise occupied. From the sounds Miss Daaé was making, she quite approved of what they were doing." 

Someone called for the man, and he left the kitchen. The maid and the seamstress continued to whisper and giggle to each other, but Raoul caught only snatches of the rest of the conversation over the roar of his blood rushing through his veins. 

What kind of game was Christine playing? Breaking their engagement then moments later enjoying a tryst with another man? He could not believe she was thinking of leaving the opera house. Even Raoul knew it was the only real home she had known after her father died. The Phantom's death had unhinged her completely, leaving her at the mercy of men who would prey on such a damaged, vulnerable child. 

He ran his hands through his hair in frustration. She had rejected him. He should leave the theater and never return, wash his hands of her. And yet...he couldn't help but think back to the night of Il Muto, of how frightened, how fragile she had seemed on the rooftop. He had promised to guard her then, to spend a lifetime protecting her. He was not a man who broke his promises. 

He still loved her, and though she had spurned him, he would not see her be taken advantage of. But just how, exactly, was he to get to the truth about what was going on?


	14. Acceptance

Pulling her cloak tightly around her, Christine stepped out the side door of the opera house and onto the street. A carriage waited at the curb underneath the glow of a gas lamp, the door open. Glancing around quickly, she searched for anyone paying her undue interest. Satisfied that she was not being watched, she crossed the pavement at a brisk walk. Climbing into the carriage, she shut the door behind her, looking out the window before pulling the curtain shut. 

The carriage's other occupant rapped sharply on the roof of the vehicle and the cab jolted into motion before Christine had a chance to sit. The sudden movement threw her off balance and she landed in the lap of her traveling partner. "Why Mademoiselle, how very forward of you!" the Phantom laughed from underneath his hooded cloak.

Christine slid off his legs to sit beside him. Reaching up she pushed his hood back so she could look him in the eyes. "Yes, but I'm sure you enjoyed it." He laughed again then kissed her. She stared at him suspiciously when he finally released her. "And what has changed your mood? You were acting like you were heading for the guillotine when I last saw you this afternoon, not an audition." She had received a telegram from Signor Donato that morning, saying he was in Paris and wanted to see her and Monsieur Noir that evening.

He grinned, leaning in to kiss her neck. She giggled, surprised at his sudden change in demeanor. She had never seen him like this, all smiles and gentle teasing. Christine rather liked her Angel this way.

"Cecilié came to see me before I left. She heard back from the priest of the Madeleine. We are to be married two nights from now, at 11 p.m. Even if our audition is a disaster, I think I will still feel this gladness in my heart." 

"Oh, Angel!" she cried, throwing her arms about his neck, hugging him tightly. "Oh! There is so much to do!" She released him, worrying her lower lip with her teeth. 

"I'll take care of everything concerning the wedding," he reassured her. "You have a performance to think about, two performances in fact, the audition tonight, and _Adelia_ on Friday." 

"I'm more worried about tonight. I could sing the role of Odetta in my sleep." She linked her arm with his and leaned against his shoulder. 

"But what if La Carlotta throws one of her fits before Friday and refuses to sing?" She could hear the mischief in his voice. 

"Don't you dare, Angel! Not now, now when we're so close to escaping! Leave Carlotta alone." 

"But it's so amusing—" 

"No." But she couldn't hide her smile. Her Angel had to be feeling better if he wanted to start playing tricks on the opera house again. 

He stuck out his lower lip in a pout, making her laugh. "You have to admit you make a better Adelia than Carlotta. You know what it's like to love an outcast, to risk your life to be with the one you love," he said, turning from joking to melancholy in a split second. 

Peeling off her glove, Christine laid her bare fingers against the unmasked side of his face, her thumb gently rubbing his cheek. "Yes, I do. And like Adelia, I would have it no other way." 

The corners of his mouth turned up in a sad little smile. "But she had the Duke to make her a noblewoman, so she could marry her high-born lover. I don't think there is anyone in the world with enough power to make me socially acceptable."

"Are you saying we shouldn't marry? Or that we should just give up any hope of leaving Paris and starting a new life together?" She searched his face for an answer. "Or is it that you have stage fright, and are looking for any excuse to get out of accompanying me tonight?" 

He ducked his head away from her, sighing. "Don't listen to me, Christine. I don't know what I am feeling at the moment. Everything has happened so quickly, and I am used to my life being under my control. Now I feel at times like it is slipping away from me, and the only way I know how to get it back is to run and hide."

"But you can't," Christine breathed softly. "There is really no place left to hide in Paris." 

Swallowing, the Phantom nodded. "If I did not have you—" He shook his head. "I would have done something incredibly foolish by now and most likely be dead." He lifted her hand and kissed the back of her fingers. "Forgive me. This is your moment, Christine, your chance to truly shine. I won't ruin that for you." 

She tapped the leather artist's portfolio that leaned against the seat. "It is your moment as well, and I won't let you ruin it for yourself." She pressed her lips to his cheek as the carriage came to a stop. A thump on the roof from the driver signaled they were at Signor Donato's hotel. 

The Phantom pulled his hood up again then opened the carriage door. Taking a deep breath, Christine followed him onto the street. A few minutes later, they were standing in front of the door to Signor Donato's hotel room. 

Her Angel stared at it for a long moment then raised his hand to knock. She grabbed his arm before he could. "Christine, what—?" 

She kissed him fiercely, her fingers clutching the lapels of his coat. When she moved back to gaze up at him, she found a slightly dazed look on his face. 

"What was that for?" he finally croaked.

Smiling, she answered, "For luck, and to remind you that no matter what happens, I love you."

He was silent for several seconds, his eyes closing. When he opened them again, she caught a glimpse of unshed tears before he crushed her to him in an embrace. "Thank you," he whispered. "Thank you for seeing beyond the mask, for seeing me, for loving me. Thank you for making me confront my fears, for making me feel like a human and not a monster. Were you to lead me into the depths of hell, I would follow you." 

Christine touched his cheek. "I do not think the depths of hell lie behind that door, but if they do, I will be right here beside you." She kissed him once more then turned and knocked on the door.

After a short wait, it was opened by a man in a servant's uniform. Her Angel stepped forward. "Monsieur Noir and Mademoiselle Daaé to see Signor Donato." 

"Right this way," the servant said, standing to the side to allow them to enter. He took Christine's cloak and gloves and then the Phantom's. His eyebrows raised slightly when he saw the mask, but otherwise he showed no reaction. "Follow me, please." 

He led them down a short hallway and into the dimly lit sitting room of the suite. A cluster of chairs, sofas and tables stood on the darkened side of the room, facing the grand piano that took up rest of the space. The sole occupant had his back to them, gazing out the window at the snow that was beginning to fall. 

"Mademoiselle Daaé and Monsieur Noir," the servant announced then left the room. 

Christine reached for her Angel's hand, giving it a quick squeeze before turning her full attention to the opera house owner. 

Reaching into his vest pocket, he consulted his watch. "Punctual, good." His accent was barely noticeable. He turned around and walked toward them. He was tall, nearly as tall as the Phantom. Christine sought a glimpse of his eyes, but the light was behind him, casting his face in shadow. Her Angel tensed beside her, but the man made no comment regarding the mask, though his attention did appear to linger on the Phantom longer than on Christine.

"Shall we begin by hearing a selection from Mademoiselle Daaé?" He gestured toward the piano. 

Christine curtsied then followed her Angel over to the instrument. He set the music up on the stand and took a seat on the bench, running his fingers over the keys, producing an arpeggio she followed effortlessly, warming up her voice. After a few minutes of exercises, he opened the sheet music to "Think of Me" from _Hannibal_.

Normally she would have moved to the side of the piano and faced her audience. But when Christine stood at the Phantom's shoulder during her warm-up, she could feel his nervousness. As he started the introduction to the aria, she moved behind him, resting her hands on his shoulders. Almost instantly she felt him relax, and his playing became freer, his fingers finding the emotion in the melody even before she began to sing. 

She had always given the song the same light-heartedness as she had heard Carlotta and other visiting divas do. But her Angel had changed the key, perhaps without even noticing he had done so, and the melody turned dark and disquieting. 

_"Think of me, think of me fondly, when we've said goodbye. Remember me once in a while–please promise me you'll try..."_ She remembered her Angel lying in the snow in the cemetery, wanting only to love her, to have her love him, for just a moment. 

_"...Think of all the things we've shared and seen—don't think about the way things might have been..."_ Her mind flashed back to the opera house roof, to the night she had kissed Raoul for the first time. She could see her Angel clearly in her mind, hiding in the shadows, his heart breaking. She would never forgive herself for that, never.

_"...Recall those days, look back on all those times, think of the things we'll never do. There will never be a day when I won't think of you..."_ She tightened her grip on his shoulders, holding onto him, the final cadenza becoming a mournful wail of regret. 

The last note died away as he raised his hands to grasp hers, supporting her as she nearly collapsed against his back. 

"Brava, mam'selle, brava!" She heard Signor Donato applauding behind her and, taking a deep breath, she turned around and bowed to him. "Such a unique interpretation. I have always thought Chalumeau overblown and disgustingly cheerful, but you have shown me new depths to his work." 

Christine straightened, her gaze going at last to the impresario's face as he moved into the pool of light surrounding the piano. She had thought Carlotta's remark about Signor Donato being "ugly as sin" to be her anger at not being hired for his opera house. Now she knew the diva had spoken the truth. She gave a little gasp and clutched her Angel's arm. He turned to see what had startled her and she could feel his surprise as well. 

Signor Donato was a man in his early fifties with a powerful physique only softened by the slight paunch at his waist. He had dark wavy hair shot through with silver. His eyes were black and revealed a sharp intelligence. Much like her Angel he would have been an extraordinarily handsome man, save for the fact that at some point in his life he had suffered from smallpox. His face was deeply pitted and scarred, his skin tough and leathery-looking. 

He approached them, his hand outstretched. It, too, was terribly scarred. Christine shook off her shock, offering her hand. She allowed him to kiss the back of it, aware of her Angel getting to his feet behind her. 

"A pleasure, Signor," he said, clasping the Italian's hand firmly, confidently meeting his eyes. His nervousness gone, he took command of the situation. "We have several other selections prepared for you. If you would take a seat?" 

Signor Donato laughed, flashing a smile at them. "Why of course. I am most interested in hearing them." 

The Phantom seated himself at the piano again, changing the sheet music. Christine sat beside him, prepared to turn the pages as well as sing. The first dissonant chord made her quiver then the melody changed to the seductive strains of the opening duet of _Don Juan Triumphant._ Her Angel's voice flowed through her, sending tendrils of desire uncurling from her core into the rest of her body. She savored the sensation, feeling the heat of his thigh where it pressed against hers even through her dress and petticoats. So lost did she become in him that he had to elbow her in the ribs just before her opening notes. 

She sang, watching him play with his eyes closed, his lips slightly parted, his fingers caressing the keyboard. She longed to be the piano, for him to coax beautiful music from her. _"...When will the blood begin to race, the sleeping bud burst into bloom? When will the flames at last consume us...?"_

She felt a shiver go through him as she hit the low notes, her voice a growl of passion. His baritone wrapped around her soprano for the final verse. _"Past the point of no return, the final threshold–the bridge is crossed, so stand and watch it burn..."_ He turned his head to look at her, his love, his need for her a blazing emerald flame in his eyes. _"We've passed the point of no return...."_

Christine felt her voice breaking on the last note, but she didn't care. Signor Donato's opinion of them no longer mattered to her. She had sung with more soul, more emotion than she ever had before. Her love for her Angel had done that to her, had linked her heart to her voice. She would remember this moment for the rest of her life.

As he lifted his fingers from the keyboard, she wrapped her arms around him, pressing her face against his neck to hide her tears.

* * *

The Phantom held onto Christine, nearly as overcome with emotion as she was. He sensed rather than heard Signor Donato move from his seat, and he said, "A moment, please, Signor." He rubbed her back, whispering nonsense in her ear until he felt her take a steadying breath. Letting go of him, she straightened, swiping quickly at her damp eyes. He handed her a handkerchief, and she gave him a tremulous smile. 

Rising from the piano bench, he offered her his hand, leading her over to a sofa across from where Signor Donato sat, his elbows resting on the arms of his chair, his fingers steepled in front of him. The Phantom sat next to Christine, as the signor asked, "Are you all right, Miss Daaé?"

She nodded. "Just a little overcome, Signor. One can rehearse and rehearse and yet not feel the emotion of a song until it is performed before an audience. It took me by surprise." She flicked her gaze to the Phantom then to the portfolio leaning against the side of the sofa. 

"Perhaps we should give Miss Daaé some time to recover before we ask her for another selection. I have brought some of my sketches for you to look at. Hopefully it will give you some idea of my work as a designer." He opened the case and began laying out drawings on the table between them, explaining the operas they were from and his reasons behind his creations. 

After nearly half an hour, the Phantom was running out of sketches. "This last design is for my unproduced opera _Don Juan Triumphant._ The duet we did earlier was from the first act."

"Marvelous piece of music," the signor remarked. "And quite scandalous, if my grasp of the French language has not escaped me. If I were to engage you, I would be interested in producing it." Leaning back in his chair, he sighed. "My previous artistic director had to retire at the beginning of last year for health reasons. My company has been leaderless ever since. We've made it through the past season performing nothing but old works, reusing sets, costumes, operas. We've become a shadow of ourselves, and it shows in our receipts. Attendance is low, and it will only improve if we can once again become known for doing the newest, most daring works.

"Having heard just that one song, I can tell you are an artist and composer who leads instead of follows." He gestured at the drawings spread over the table. "Your designs are fresh and romantic, spare, yet evocative. Tell me, Monsieur Noir, if I were to turn my opera house over to you, what works would you choose to perform?"

The Phantom felt as if he had just been dropped into the middle of the ocean, no land in sight. He shot a quick glance at Christine. She smiled at him and nodded encouragingly, but he still felt like he was drowning in a sea of possible answers. Though perhaps the solution was not to answer the question at all. "I'm afraid I could not make a choice at the moment, Signor, not without meeting your company, seeing your theater, and learning their strengths and weaknesses. An opera will only be successful if the roles are carefully cast, the sets and costumes meshing with the existing stage. I know what roles are suitable for Miss Daaé, but one singer does not an opera make." He waited, holding his breath.

A slow smile creased Signor Donato's scarred face. "You are the first applicant to give me that answer. You are, I think, a very wise man, Monsieur, or perhaps just crafty. Either way, I believe your quick mind and obvious talents are what my opera house needs." 

Again, the Phantom looked to Christine. "What about Miss Daaé?" 

The Italian looked stricken. "Ah, forgive me, mam'selle. I was so caught up in your beautiful performance earlier that I completely forgot to tell you the position with my company is yours, if you agree to accept it. You would be singing the secondary roles for now, but in several years Maria Zarelli will be retiring and the lead soprano position would be yours." 

Now it was Christine's turn to look at the Phantom for help. "I believe that would be acceptable to Miss Daaé. I would much prefer she continue to train her voice and not damage it by attempting too demanding a role before she is physically ready for it." 

"Since my teacher feels that this is a great opportunity for me then I shall be happy to accept your offer, Signor," Christine said. 

Signor Donato rubbed his hands together. "Very well, now we must get down to the difficult business, salary. I'm afraid I cannot offer you the equivalent of the twenty thousand francs a month you are receiving from the Opera Populaire. I can give you a comfortable salary though, and the director's position comes with a villa on the Grand Canal. I can also arrange an apartment close to the opera house for Miss Daaé, and the same starting salary as all our seconds." 

Christine took the Phantom's hand. "The apartment won't be necessary, Signor. Monsieur Noir and I are engaged to be married two nights from now." 

"Ah! Congratulations are in order then!" He got to his feet as the Phantom gathered up his drawings. "How soon should I expect you in Venice? I must wire them to prepare your villa, as it has been empty this past year." 

Looking at Christine, the Phantom said, "Miss Daaé has one final performance this coming Friday at the Opera Populaire. If I can get passage, I will book us on the first train out of Paris after the performance." 

Signor Donato clapped his hands. "Splendid, splendid! I will have my assistant make arrangements to have any of your furnishings and large trunks sent separately. I trust a message sent to you at the opera house will reach you?" 

"If it is sent in care of Miss Daaé," the Phantom answered. 

"Very good." As Christine rose, he bent over her hand again then shook the Phantom's as well. "One more thing before you go, Monsieur." 

The Phantom froze. This was it. He was finally going to ask about the mask. He schooled the disappointment from his face before he met the other man's eyes. "Yes?" 

"I want to make it clear to you that as my director, your word is law among the company. I do not tolerate gossip, or abusive behavior toward any of the company members, including you, Miss Daaé, and myself. I think we have probably both suffered more than our fair share of that in our lifetimes." He gestured at his own face with a sad smile. 

For a moment, the Phantom was speechless. Finally he managed to force a squeaky "Thank you," past the lump in his throat. Looking toward Christine, he saw she was crying from the emotion of the moment. She knew how much it mean to him to be judged by his work and not his appearance. Biting the inside of his lip, he turned back to Signor Donato, raising his hand to his mask. He knew it had not been asked of him, that Signor Donato would never ask. Yet it was for that reason he felt a need to reveal himself to this man who was, in a way, making the Phantom's life with Christine possible. Trust, Christine kept reminding him, he had to learn to trust.

His hand shaking, he slowly removed the mask. 

To his credit, Signor Donato did not cry out in horror. He simply sighed and said, "I think we have much more in common than just opera, Monsieur." 

Swallowing, the Phantom replied, "Perhaps we do." He replaced his mask then said, "I think I shall look forward to working with you very much." 

"And I with you, and mam'selle as well." He gave them both a little bow then saw them out.

* * *

As the door closed behind them, Christine looked at her Angel. He appeared as if he wanted to say something, but couldn't quite figure out what. The sound of footsteps coming up the stairs made him grab her arm and drag her around the corner, out of sight. "Angel?"

He shook his head, the muscles of his jaw twitching, but still he said nothing. Finally, he pulled her into his embrace, crushing her to his chest. She slid her arms around him underneath his cloak. He shuddered against her, his breathing loud in the empty hallway. 

"Christine...Christine..." he whispered, leaning his forehead against hers. "Tell me I am not dreaming, for never in my wildest imaginings have I ever envisioned this. Is this what it feels like to be normal?" 

She brought one hand up to cup the back of his neck. "I don't know, Angel. I hardly feel my life thus far qualifies as 'normal' either." She brushed her lips against his, enjoying being the cause of the shiver that went through him. "But whatever it is, it feels good, like it is meant to be." 

He squeezed her tight, throwing back his head and laughing. When he looked down at her again, he had the most beautiful smile on his face. "Come my darling Christine. Let us go home and pack." Pulling his hood up, he took her hand and led her down the stairs.


	15. Altercations

Raoul swallowed the last of the wine in his glass then held it out for his brother to refill. "I'm at my wit's end, Philippe. Christine is seeing someone else, I know it, but I cannot seem to prove it."

"She's an ungrateful wretch. You should make up your mind to forget about her. Find someone else to dally with for awhile. One of the dancers, perhaps, if you are still besotted with that damn opera house." The elder de Chagny speared a piece of meat forcefully. 

Raoul shook his head. "I can't. I promised her I would look after her."

"And she gave you your ring back. That absolves you of all responsibility." He turned his attention back to his meal.

The Vicomte ignored his barely touched plate as he sipped his wine, gazing out the window at the falling snow. It had snowed the night he and Christine had pledged their love to one another on the rooftop of the opera house, the night that madman had killed the stage hand. What Christine had ever seen in that lunatic, Raoul could not fathom. Good riddance to him.

He watched the people on the sidewalk entering and leaving the Hotel Meurice. There was the Countess de Cherbourg and her newest paramour. A member of the Vicomte's gentleman's club walked by with a woman Raoul knew was not his wife. And that woman over there, standing next to the tall man in a long cloak who was hailing a cab, she looked exactly like Christine. 

"Christine!" he exclaimed, jumping up from his seat and jarring the table. Both glasses of wine tumbled over and only his brother's quick reflexes saved the bottle.

"What are you on about, Raoul?" Philippe asked, irritated.

"I swear to God that's Christine out there, getting into a cab with a man." Ignoring Philippe's cries to think about what he was doing, Raoul raced out the door of the restaurant as the cab pulled away from the curb. He flagged down the next cab that came past. Leaping onto the side of the carriage, he told the driver to follow Christine's cab, but not so closely as to be noticed. He wanted to find out where her mysterious lover was taking her. 

Fifteen minutes later, the driver pulled his horse to a stop across the square from the Opera Populaire. "I believe that is them over there, Monsieur," the driver said. 

Raoul looked out the window of the carriage, watching as the cloaked and hooded man helped Christine down from the cab that stood in front of the theater some thirty yards away. The man paid the driver then paused on the sidewalk with Christine for a few moments. He was carrying some kind of attaché, which he handed to her. Raoul was beginning to think he had acted a bit rashly in following Christine, when the man in the cloak pulled her into an embrace. Before letting her go, he brazenly kissed her on the lips. 

Fury flooded through Raoul. How dare this man debase Christine on the street for the world to see! He was out of the carriage in an instant, tossing some francs at the driver. But by the time he dodged the sparse traffic to cross the street the man was gone. Only Christine remained on the steps of the opera house, and she appeared to be leaving. 

"Christine!" he cried, "Christine, wait!"

She paused at the top of the steps then turned to face him. "Raoul! What are you doing here?" She clutched the large portfolio to her chest like a shield. 

She was afraid, he realized. "I saw you, Christine. I saw you kissing that man!" he blurted out. "Who was he?"

A look of terror crossed her face but was quickly replaced by one of anger. "That is not any of your concern." She started toward the theater doors. Raoul grabbed her arm and she stumbled, going to her knees. The portfolio slid from her hands, papers spilling from it when it hit the ground. "No," she cried, trying to scoop them up before the wind blew them away.

Raoul chased after them as well, shuffling the sheet music into a semblance of a pile before presenting it to her. Tears glistened in her eyes as she looked up at him and, for a moment, he regretted his harsh words to her. 

Then he took note of the title on the top piece of music he held— _Don Juan Triumphant._ Rage clouded his vision and he had to shout to hear himself over the roaring in his ears. "This is the Phantom's opera! Why would you have this, Christine? Have you been lying to me?"

Snatching the music from him, Christine shoved it into the portfolio. "He would have wanted me to have it," she said indignantly, swiping at her tears. "He wrote it for **me.** If you must know, I had an audition tonight, and it is the perfect piece to show off my voice." She got to her feet, brushing at her skirt.

He grasped her by the wrist, his fingers digging into her flesh. "Perhaps that is true. But that still does not explain why that man had his hands on you, or why you allowed him to kiss you. Are you that desperate to leave the Opera Populaire that you would barter favors for the opportunity? He dragged her closer, his hands on her shoulders, shaking her. "Why do you give yourself to strangers yet refuse me, the man who loves you?"

Her gaze searched his face anxiously and then her eyes widened in realization. "Let me go, Raoul. You're drunk." 

He was close enough to her now to inhale her scent. She smelled of roses and vanilla and the odor brought back sweet memories of their months together. She had once allowed **him** to touch her, to kiss her. Raoul pushed her up against the railing, feeling the heat of her body against his. The need to taste her overcame him, and he crushed his mouth to hers, his tongue finding its way between her lips. 

Christine's hand tangled in his hair and he almost believed she wanted him as badly as he did her. Then she was yanking on his hair as hard as she could, letting out a scream as he broke the kiss. He staggered back from her, tasting blood. She had bit him as he had pulled away. She had bit him! 

By the time he had returned his attention to her, she was gone, vanished into the shadows surrounding the opera house.

* * *

Christine ducked through the side door of the theater, the portfolio with her Angel's music and drawings held tightly to her chest. She inhaled deeply, forcing back a wave of nausea. Downstairs. She had to get downstairs. She would be safe there.

Hurrying through the empty backstage area, Christine entered La Carlotta's dressing room. Lighting a candle from one of the gas jets, she opened the mirror and stepped through into the secret passage. The candle cast wavering shadows on the stone walls and she realized her hand was shaking. 

"Strong, I have to be strong," she whispered. "He didn't hurt me. There's nothing to be frightened of." Still, the thought of Raoul's hands gripping her sent a shudder through her. 

She kept her calm until she finally entered the lair through the mirror, not willing to trust herself with the boat. "Angel?" she called out.

Silence greeted her. Setting the leather case down on a table, she removed her cloak and gloves, letting them fall where she stood. Dizziness made her stagger and she caught the back of a chair for balance. Lie down. She would feel better if she lay down.

Christine crossed the lair, tripping on the top stair to the bedchamber but managing not to fall. Making her way to the bed, she tumbled onto the mattress. As she lay there, her heart beating wildly against her ribs, Christine remembered there was something her Angel had told her to do before he left her. It was something important, but she couldn't recall what it was.

All she could remember were Raoul's hands on her and the taste of his alcohol-soaked breath as he had forced his tongue into her mouth. She didn't want to remember that. Think of the audition. Think of her Angel sitting beside her, singing for her. A smile on her lips, Christine closed her eyes.

* * *

The Phantom called out Christine's name as soon as he entered the lair, taking off his cloak and mask. Frowning at the lack of an answer, he glanced around the room. Her cloak lay discarded on the floor. Something was wrong. He had felt it since the moment Cecilié had said Christine had not stopped by her apartment to tell her the good news about their new positions with the Gran Teatro de Fenice. 

He entered the bedroom to find Christine sprawled on the bed, her eyes closed. "Christine!" Moving to her side, he felt her forehead. It was clammy with sweat and the pulse at her throat was racing. He tried to wake her to no avail. Damn it. She had been too nervous to eat before the audition, so she had promised him that was the first thing she would do when they returned to the opera house.

Leaving her for a moment, he returned with a jar of honey. Opening it, the Phantom dipped his finger into the sticky sweetness then slid his coated finger into her mouth, stroking her throat to make her swallow. "Christine," he called again. "Christine, please. Don't do this to me." He forced another dose of honey down her. The third time his finger passed her lips, he felt her tongue stroke against it. The sensation went straight to his groin, and he despised himself for feeling the stirrings of arousal in the midst of such a desperate situation. 

"Christine!" Her eyelids fluttered then opened halfway. Her lips parted to accept his offering of honey, and she licked his finger clean. "Oh, Christine," he whispered, touching her cheek as the confusion cleared from her eyes. "Christine, please don't frighten me like that again."

"Angel? What happened?" With his help, she sat up. He pressed more food on her, some bread and dried apricots. She chewed automatically, her brow furrowed in puzzlement. "How did I get here?"

"Eat now, ask questions later," the Phantom told her, sitting down on the edge of the bed beside her. He had plenty of questions for her, but he kept silent as she ate.

Finally Christine shook her head when he offered her another apricot. "In a minute," she told him. 

He stroked her face gently, asking, "You promised me you were going straight to the kitchen and then to see Cecilié when we parted in front of the theater. How did you end up down here?" 

She leaned against him, resting her head on his shoulder. "I don't—" He felt her stiffen. "Raoul," she whispered, "Raoul saw me on the steps. He—he said he had seen you kissing me. He thought you were a theater owner, and I was offering you favors to get a position. He was drunk." 

Anger churned in the Phantom's gut, but he forced it back. "Did he hurt you, Christine?" he asked, his voice unnaturally calm. 

Christine's arms tightened around him. "He pushed me up against the railing and tried to kiss me. I pulled his hair and got away. All I could think about was getting down here, where I knew I would be safe." 

Anger became blinding fury. "I'll kill him!" he growled, leaping to his feet. "You nearly died because of him! I swear I will kill him!" 

"Angel, no!" she pleaded. 

"No! He has been a thorn in our sides for too long, Christine. As long as he lives, we will never have peace!" He turned to leave, but she caught his arm. He shook her off roughly. "I have to do this!" 

"No, you don't," her voice was calm, assured. "I am fine. There is no need for you to do anything. We are so close, Angel, so close to escaping. Please don't do this." 

But the Phantom couldn't let it go. Raoul's attempt to force himself on Christine would not go unpunished.

He stalked out of the bedroom and into the main room, going straight to the Punjab lasso that lay coiled over the back of a chair. He picked it up, feeling the weight of the rope in his hands, imagining it around the Vicomte's neck. Raoul would be surprised at first and then the Phantom would tighten the noose slowly, cutting off his air bit by bit, until the Vicomte's face began to turn purple and his eyes to bulge. He would let Raoul see him then, let him see the face of his executioner. Terror would take over, perhaps he would fight back, perhaps he would plead for his life, probably he would piss himself. The Phantom would show him no mercy; he would just keep tightening the rope, tightening it until he ceased to struggle, until his lips turned blue and his eyes rolled back in his head and–

Turning around, the Phantom came face to face with a monster. His distorted and twisted image leered grotesquely at him from the mirror he had shattered over a week ago. He closed his eyes against the sight, but he couldn't stop the voices. _Murderer! Devil's child!_ The words echoed in his head. _Loathsome gargoyle!_

He dropped the rope, bringing his hands up to cover his ears, doubling over. _Repulsive carcass! Beast!_ No... No... He wasn't a demon, a hideous creature. He was a man now, a man! A better man than Raoul by far. Christine loved him. She loved _him._

Slowly the rage began to die away, the voices fading. He straightened up, opening his eyes. The sight of the lasso lying at his feet turned his stomach. Tasting bile at the back of his throat, he moved away from the rope, lurching up the stairs and into the bedchamber. 

Christine sat on the edge of the bed, her hands clasped together in her lap, her head bowed. He could hear her whispering over and over, "Mother of God, please protect my Angel, Mother of God, please protect my Angel..."

He fell to his knees before her, wrapping his fingers around hers. He pressed his forehead against their joined hands, sobbing, "Forgive me, Christine, please forgive me."

Her fingers brushed over his damaged cheek as she pressed her lips to the top of his head. "There is nothing to forgive, Angel." 

"But I wanted to kill him," he choked out. "I saw myself putting the noose around his neck–"

"But you didn't do it," she told him softly.

The Phantom looked up into her eyes, seeing the same love as always shining back at him. She slipped off the bed to sit next to him on the ground, wrapping her arms around him as he leaned against her. He let her warmth soak into him, thawing the bits of wrath and jealousy left in his heart.

Two more days and Christine would be his wife. Three more days and they would never have to think of the Vicomte de Chagny again. "Three more days," he whispered to Christine. 

"Three more days," she whispered back, kissing his forehead. "And then we shall be free."


	16. Preparations

The Phantom pulled another piece of paper out of the chest on the floor in front of him. He held it up, studying the drawing with a critical eye. In going through the sketches he had created over the years, he had come to the conclusion he had drawn too many damn ballerinas. Now of course, that was becoming all the rage, with that Degas fellow loitering around the Paris theaters. He tossed the sketch onto a pile of items to be left behind and withdrew another one from the chest. 

Ah, now Cecilié might like to have this one. Done in color, it was her in her prime, probably about age seventeen, balanced on pointe with one leg raised high, arms outstretched. Her partner, Maxim Giry, supported her from behind. The Phantom hadn't thought of the late Max Giry in years. Sighing, he threw the drawing onto the refuse pile. Seeing the picture would probably only bring back bad memories for Cecilié.

Come to think of it, the Phantom's memories of that period of his life were not so wonderful either. Those first few years he had still had hope, hope that had been repeatedly dashed until nothing remained of it. Or so he had thought until Christine. He rubbed at his face then sneezed as the dust on his hands tickled his nose. 

Cecilié stuck her head out of the bedchamber where she was packing up Christine's clothes. "Tell me you are not coming down with a cold on the day before your wedding, Erik." 

"I swear I am not, it's only dust," he told her, feeling a smile tug at his lips. She disappeared into the other room again, and he removed another drawing from the stack inside the chest. He felt his heart stop as he looked at it. It was one of the first drawings he had ever made of Christine, perhaps done before he had even worked up the courage to talk to her from behind the walls. 

It was a pastel again, a portrait of seven-year-old Christine kneeling in the chapel by the light of a single candle. The candle only illuminated a small area around her, but the details of her face and hair were rich. Her brown eyes gazed toward heaven, each individual eyelash painstakingly drawn. 

In the shadows at the edge of the candlelight, the Phantom had drawn an angel, the shape of his wings barely hinted at, outlined by a soft ethereal glow. He appeared to be watching over Christine as she prayed, behind her, out of sight.

A wealth of emotions bubbled up inside the Phantom, and he closed his eyes against the burn of tears. The face of the angel was not his; he had copied one of the pre-Raphaelite angels from the chapel walls. Even in a picture no one would see but him, he had not felt worthy of her. 

Setting the drawing aside, he leaned his head in his hands. These should be the happiest moments of his life. Why, then, did he feel such turmoil when he thought of Christine becoming his wife?

The rustle of skirts signaled Cecilié's approach. "Erik? Are you sure you are not ill?" He heard her drag a chair over to where he sat on the ground. Taking a seat, she rested her hand on his shoulder. "What is the matter? You act like you are anticipating a funeral rather than a wedding. Isn't this what you wanted?"

He ran a hand over his head, feeling scraggly hair and scarred, uneven skin. "I don't think I've ever known what I wanted. I just…wanted." He pulled his knees up, wrapping his arms loosely around them. "Tell me something, Cecilié, why did you ever allow me near Christine? I was not entirely sane at that moment in my life, you knew that."

Letting out a long sigh, she fingered the cross hanging around her neck. "I didn't know what else to do. Meg was so sick the year Christine came to live here, and it was my first season as ballet mistress. I had to take care of Meg and the dancers and worry about choreography. I couldn't give Christine the love and attention she needed, and she was making herself ill, pining for her father."

The Phantom's laugh was a sharp bark that echoed through the lair. "You must have been truly desperate to see me as a solution."

She shrugged. "Perhaps. Even though very few words passed between us then, I could see you dying inside a little more every day, the same with Christine. I thought the two of you might save each other. I was right, wasn't I?"

He considered that for a moment, then silently conceded that she had been. "Did you ever think it would turn out like this?" He gestured at the moving trunks scattered throughout the lair.

Cecilié shook her head. "No. I thought you would have revealed yourself to Christine long before you did."

He looked away from her, his gaze falling on the angel that was not him. "I was afraid," he finally said, his voice low. "I am still afraid."

Her fingers tightened on his shoulder. "Of what?" 

"Christine looks into my darkness and sees only light. I am afraid one day she will look at me and see the truth."

"Did you ever consider that it is Christine's vision that is true and yours that is distorted?" Cecilié asked gently.

Her words took his breath away, and he spent a moment simply trying to breathe before the tears started to fall. When they did, he couldn't stop them. He buried his face in his arms to hide them from Cecilié, but the sobs shuddering through him made the attempt futile. 

The fabric of her dress made a crinkling noise as she knelt beside him, her arm going around his shoulders. He resisted at first, but she wouldn't let go. Finally, he gave in and leaned his head against her chest. "I'm sorry, Cecilié, I'm so sorry for everything I put you through. You always cared about me, no matter how many hateful things I did or said. You were a good sister to me, and I, I have been the most horrible of brothers." 

"Shh," she murmured, "shh." She stroked his hair, pressing a kiss to the top of his head. "Do not take all the blame on yourself, Erik. We were both children; we both made mistakes. I wasn't strong enough. I couldn't give you the kind of love you needed." 

Despite the years that had passed, despite the love he shared with Christine, he still felt the pain of that long ago moment when he had truly believed he would be spending the rest of his life alone. The sobs overwhelmed him again, and he cried his last tears for poor, lonely, unloved Erik, the boy in the cage.

* * *

Christine entered the lair to find her Angel seated at the organ. She watched as he played a few measures from several different pieces of music then either tossed the manuscript into a trunk at the side of the organ or stacked it on top of the instrument. Coming up behind him, she slid her arms over his shoulders, hugging him. All the tension seemed to flow out of him and he leaned back against her, making a pleased little noise. Catching hold of her hands, he brought them to his lips and kissed her fingertips. "How goes the rehearsing?" he asked. "Will tomorrow night be another of La Carlotta's disasters?"

She sat down on the bench next to him. "I should hope not–as I will be singing the role of Adelia. La Carlotta had an unfortunate accident this afternoon–"

"I'd nothing to do with it," he said quickly. "I've been here all day. Cecilié will vouch for me."

Christine laughed. "I know you didn't." She turned slightly toward him and took her first good look at his face. "Angel? What's the matter? You've been crying…." His green eyes were red-rimmed, his lashes still damp. She reached up to touch his face, brushing the back of her fingers over his cheek. He closed his eyes, letting out a long sigh. 

"Memories, that's all. Sorting through all this–" he waved his hand to encompass the disarray of his home "–brought back some unpleasant memories. Nothing for you to worry about." 

"But I do. I love you so much, Angel, and I know there are things you've never told me, things I know will hurt me to hear, and will hurt you to say." She rested her hand on the back of his neck, her thumb stroking over his skin. "But I want you to know there is nothing you can ever say that will change the way I feel about you, save perhaps that you do not love me." 

He looked into her eyes for a long moment, his lips twitching but no sound coming out. Finally, he said, "You will never hear those words come from me, Christine. For me to stop loving you would mean that I had ceased breathing. I need you like the air. You are my strength, you're the reason I'm able to do this at all, to even consider living up there." His gaze strayed to the ceiling then returned to her. "And perhaps someday, when I am stronger, and more secure in myself, and know that your love is not a dream, I will tell you those things that you want to know. But I can't now. I'm sorry."

She kissed him then, kissed his forehead, his eyelids, tasted the remnants of his tears. She kissed both cheeks and his nose, finally brushing her lips against his. His arms tightened around her, and he let out a low moan before releasing her. She smiled at him, her hand sliding down his chest. "I am not a dream, Angel." 

Inhaling deeply as he caught hold of her hand before it wandered into dangerous territory, the Phantom said, "You were saying something about Carlotta and an unfortunate accident?"

Christine giggled. "I shouldn't laugh, I know, but you had promised you would do nothing to her, and then something happened anyway. Apparently she was teasing her doggies, making them jump for treats. One of them bit her on the nose. It swelled up like an orange, and she can hardly breathe, let alone sing. I feel horrible, taking her place." 

He kissed her temple. "It's only for one performance. After Friday night, Carlotta will never have to worry about you stealing her limelight again."

"True. Though I am afraid my taking over for her means I will be rehearsing tomorrow almost until the hour of our wedding." She frowned, feeling tears spring to her eyes. "I wanted to be the most beautiful bride for you and now I will be lucky if I have time to change into my wedding dress." 

The Phantom slid his arm around her, drawing her close enough for her to rest her cheek against his shoulder. "You will always be beautiful to me, Christine, even if you were to marry me in rags."

She laughed softly. "You are more the romantic fool than I am, I think sometimes." Christine lifted her head to look into his eyes. "That is one of the many reasons I love you." She kissed his cheek. "Now, will you join me for supper before I have to go back to rehearsal?" 

"Of course," he answered.

* * *

Cecilié separated Christine's hair into several sections, then gathering one section, she began to twist it round her head, pinning it in place as she went. Christine's fingers drummed on the top of the vanity. "Oh, what time is it?" she asked again. 

"Not even ten o'clock," the older woman answered. "You have plenty of time." 

Christine scrunched up her face as Cecilié poked her scalp with a hairpin. "I'm not dressed yet! If I'm late I'm afraid my Angel will think I've deserted him." 

"Oh, Christine," Meg spoke up from where she was setting out Christine's wedding dress, "he loves you so much. He'll wait if you're a few moments late. He knows we had rehearsal." 

"I know, I know, but—" A sharp knock on the dressing room door interrupted her. "Who could that be? Everyone should be going home."

"Meg, come finish this," Cecilié said to her daughter. "I'll send whoever it is away." 

Once Meg had taken over with Christine's hair, the ballet mistress moved to the dressing room door, turning the key in the lock and opening it just enough so she could peer out. The Vicomte de Chagny stood in the hallway, his expression nervous. 

"I must speak with Christine," he said loudly. 

Cecilié heard Christine gasp, and she stepped out into the hallway, closing the door behind her. "Haven't you done enough, Monsieur? After the way you behaved, Christine does not wish to set eyes on you again!" she hissed. 

"Please, Madame Giry," he pleaded. "I must see her. I must apologize for my behavior the other night. I was not myself." He looked at the floor and shuffled his feet like a small boy.

"Grow up, Vicomte. She spurned your offer and you acted like the lowest animal in return. Christine wants nothing from you other than to leave her alone. So leave." She turned to go back into the dressing room but he laid his hand on her arm. 

"Please, I am afraid for Christine. She has been acting very strangely ever since…" he left the sentence incomplete.

"Since you killed her Angel?" Cecilié finished for him. "What did you expect, Vicomte?"

Again he could not meet her eyes, his gaze off down the hall toward the stage. "I did not expect her to start throwing herself at strangers. There are men out there who would take advantage of her. She needs protecting. I swore I would be her guardian, I would keep her safe even if she does not love me." 

Cecilié shook her head. "Leave it alone, sir. You have—" She never got a chance to finish her sentence.

The door to the dressing room flew back with a loud bang. Christine appeared in the opening in her dressing gown, her hair still only partially pinned up. She strode up to Raoul, raised her left hand and slapped his face. "Leave me alone!" she screamed, preparing to strike the stunned Vicomte a second time. 

Cecilié grabbed her hand and wrapped her other arm around the furious girl, holding her back. "Christine! Control yourself!"

"Why? He didn't the other night!" She struggled in Cecilié's grip, straining toward Raoul. "After tomorrow, I will be gone from here and will no longer have to look upon your face!" Meg appeared from behind Cecilié and took hold of Christine's other arm. Together they began to wrestle her back into the dressing room. She spat in his direction.

"Please, Vicomte! Leave! Now!" Eyes wide with shock at Christine's behavior, Raoul turned and walked swiftly away. 

Closing and locking the dressing room door, Cecilié turned to Meg and Christine, both of whom were collapsed on the floor, howling with laughter. She rolled her eyes heavenward. "Mon Dieu!" Clapping her hands together, she said, "Pull yourselves together, girls, or Christine will truly be late for her wedding!" 

There was no time now for anything elaborate. Cecilié simply pulled Christine's hair back from her face in a twist, pinning it in place with several jeweled clips. She and Meg helped Christine into her wedding dress.

They were just getting into their cloaks when there was another knock on the door. Cecilié opened it to find Dr. Jarred standing there, a bouquet of red roses in his hand. "Tristan?" 

He gave a low bow. "Your carriage awaits, miladies. I have been sent to see you make it to the church on time. Erik was a bit worried." He looked around the room at the chaos. "I can't possibly imagine why."

Entering, he crossed to Christine and presented the roses to her. A black satin ribbon was tied around the dozen stems. "Your groom sends his love." 

"Oh, Angel," she whispered, burying her nose in the blooms, her eyes sparkling with tears. She wiped at her eyes then said, "Let us hurry. I don't want to keep my Angel waiting."


	17. You Set Me Free

Deeply shaken by Christine's deviant behavior, Raoul left the opera house. He couldn't find the strength to go home, though, and face his brother's scorn. Instead, he crossed the street to a café and ordered a shot of whiskey. 

It took him until the third shot to finally calm down enough to think rationally about what had happened. He rubbed his cheek where Christine had slapped him. He had never thought her capable of violence, but he had the evidence to the contrary. His lip still throbbed and burned if he allowed the alcohol to come in contact with the cut from where she had bitten him two days ago.

He pushed his hair back behind his ears. Nothing was making sense anymore. Nothing had made sense from the night he had been reunited with Christine after the gala. She had whispered to him about her Angel of Music and he had mistakenly thought she was still playing their Little Lotte game. It had taken him months to discover the truth, that her Angel was real, was in fact the Phantom that had been terrorizing the opera house for years.

Downing the last of the liquid in his glass, he indicated to the barkeep to pour another. He toyed with the glass after the man left, remembering the night of the Bal Masqué and his foolish leap after the Phantom into his chamber of mirrors. His intentions had been noble, but would have ended tragically save for his rescue by Madame Giry. 

He tossed back the shot, feeling the warmth spread through him. That woman was too secretive by far. Raoul was certain she still knew more than she was telling about the Phantom. If she had been the one to bring him to the opera house, been his only ally though the years, then she must have known of his malicious relationship with Christine. Hell, from the things she had said about their so-called "love" for one another, she probably encouraged him to take advantage of gentle, vulnerable Christine. The thought twisted his stomach. 

Whatever could have possessed Madame Giry to force Christine to endure the attentions of such a monster? That the Phantom was a creature of evil, Raoul had no doubt even though he himself had never seen what lay beneath the mask. Christine's description had been vivid enough _"...so distorted, deformed, it was hardly a face…"_

Raoul shook his head. Thank God Christine was no longer under the demon's influence. At least he could be proud of that, that he had slain the dragon and freed the princess. The image of Christine kissing the tall man in the cloak the other night floated past his mind's eye. "Freed her so a different sort of evil could harm her," he muttered. "Some knight in shining armor you are."

The bartender returned, whiskey bottle at the ready, but Raoul waved him off. Any more to drink and he would be lucky to make it home tonight at all. He paid his tab and got wearily to his feet. He was out of ideas. 

Despite the late hour, there was a boy still outside the café to fetch cabs for the patrons. Raoul handed him a coin. "Run across to the opera house and tell the cab there he has a fare."

The boy shook his head. "That one's taken, sir. I heard the gentleman tell the driver to wait when he pulled up. I'll run down to the corner and get you one."

"Very well," Raoul sighed. He leaned against the exterior wall of the café, wondering idly who would be visiting the opera house at this time of night. His question was answered when one of the theater's doors opened and a man in a top hat and formal wear came out. He held the door for the three women with him. They came down the steps and crossed to the cab. Raoul had a clear view as the man helped first Christine, then Meg into the carriage. As he gave his arm to Madame Giry, he leaned down and kissed her cheek. 

What in the blazes? Who was this man, and where was he taking Christine? The man removed his hat before climbing into the cab, and Raoul finally recognized him as Dr. Jarred. But what was Christine doing with him? She hadn't appeared sick, in fact, she and Meg had been laughing and smiling as they got into the carriage. And when had Dr. Jarred become so familiar with Madame Giry? Nothing made sense. Nothing made sense at all, except—

The truth struck him like a bolt of lightning, and he yelled for the cab driver to stop, but the carriage was already rumbling down the street.

Who had told him that the Phantom was dead? Christine, and Dr. Jarred. He had never seen the body. Who had kept him away from Christine in the days following the Bal Masque'? Madame Giry and Dr. Jarred. He had never visited Christine while she had been ill. Who had always seemed to latch onto him every time he tried to see Christine? Meg Giry. She had always insisted on carrying a message to Christine, rather than taking him to her. 

Raoul felt his insides twist in despair as he made a half-hearted attempt to chase after the cab. He came to a stop in the middle of the street, letting out a bellow of frustration. How could he have been so blind, so incredibly stupid? Christine was an **actress** , for God's sake! It had all been an act, the illness, the grief, the madness—a play for an audience of one. And there could only be a single reason for it. That fiend was still alive!

His cab drew up to the curb then, but it was too late. Christine and her band of merry players were long gone.

* * *

Seated in a chair close to the front of the Church of the Madeleine, the Phantom concentrated on keeping his breathing even, trying to calm his nerves. He felt as if a nest of vipers had made a wriggling, writhing home in his stomach. 

He checked his pocket watch again. Quarter 'til eleven. She would be here; Christine would be here. He tried to ignore the taunting voice in his head that whispered he was dreaming, that the past month with Christine had all been a dream. He was dead and in hell and this was his punishment, to wait forever in a church for a woman who would never arrive. 

The Phantom clasped his hands together, then hastily unclasped them when he realized it might make him appear to be praying. He didn't believe in God, or at least in a God who would have created him, a God who would turn a blind eye to all the suffering in the world. A wry smile twitched his lips. Strange then that he could believe in angels but not in God. Christine was his angel fallen to earth, the light guiding him from his world of darkness. If he could not have her in his life, he realized he would rather die than return to the blackness. The thought sent a shiver through him, the sudden rush of fear stirring up the snakes again.

Closing his eyes, he pressed his fingers to his temples. The door in the vestibule opened, the sound echoing loudly in the quiet church, but the Phantom dared not turn around and look. If he looked then Christine would disappear like Euridice, only he would be the one plunged back into Hades. Footsteps clicked on the stone floor, growing louder as they approached him. He still could not make himself turn around. 

A hand dropped onto his shoulder and he jumped. "You can relax, Erik," Tristan's voice said in his ear. "Your bride is here." 

The Phantom let out the breath he hadn't realized he had been holding. He got to his feet a bit unsteadily. "The priest," he murmured. 

"I'll get him," Tristan said, and left the Phantom alone once more. He somehow found the courage to turn toward the church entrance. He could see his love in the shadows, Meg and Cecilié helping her with her veil. He pinched himself, relieved when the pain let him know he wasn't dreaming after all. 

Tristan returned with the priest, who took up a position in front of the altar, his Bible open in his hand. The Phantom moved to the end of the center aisle, Tristan standing to his right. Cecilié left the vestibule and came toward the front, stopping to hug the Phantom and kiss his cheek before taking a seat. 

The Phantom turned to face the back of the church as Meg started down the aisle, moving with her dancer's grace to music only she could hear. He barely noticed her, his gaze hunting for his first glimpse of Christine. As Meg reached the front of the church, Christine stepped into the aisle and the Phantom felt his heart stop. 

She was truly an angel in her ivory gown, her white shoulders bare, the slight swell of her breasts enhanced by the lace border along the low neckline, the veil covering her face but not hiding the joyous sparkle in her eyes as she met his gaze. She carried a single crimson rose tied with a black ribbon in her hands, and the smile on her face was the most beautiful he had ever seen. Meg's procession had been slow and measured; Christine fairly flew down the aisle toward him, the train of her dress flowing like water behind her. 

Swallowing hard, the Phantom held out his hand to her, feeling her fingers wrap around his as she took her place at his side. She looked up at him, mouthing a silent "I love you" before she turned to face the priest. The good Father read a few passages from the scriptures, but the Phantom barely heard, his attention entirely focused on the woman beside him.

Despite the warmth of her hand in his, part of him felt as if he was moving through a fantasy. For so many years, he had imagined what it would feel like to be loved, to have someone look upon his face and smile instead of scream, to have someone want to be near him, to touch him, to kiss him, to make love to him. But all his dreams, his fantasies had never prepared him for the reality of Christine. She was so much more than he had hoped for. She loved him for who he was deep inside; she saw possibilities in him he never could imagine on his own. She turned the ghost into flesh and blood. She made him real. 

A poke in his ribs from Tristan brought the Phantom's attention back to the priest, who was saying something about marriage vows. 

Christine handed her rose to Meg and turned to face him as they joined hands. He looked into her dark eyes, seeing her love for him burning brightly. He could only hope she saw the same when she gazed at him. 

"Angel Erik Noir, will you take Christine Jeanne Daaé here present, for your lawful wife according to the rite of our Holy Mother, the Catholic Church?"

Christine's eyes widened and she gave a little gasp as the priest spoke the name the Phantom had chosen to begin their new life together. He smiled at her and answered, "I will." Then he repeated his vows after the priest. "I, Angel Erik Noir, take you, Christine Jeanne Daaé, for my wife, to have and to hold, from this day forward, for better, for worse, for richer, for poorer, in sickness and in health, until death do us part." He saw tears starting in her eyes as he finished, and he squeezed her hands. 

"Christine Jeanne Daaé, will you take Angel Erik Noir here present, for your lawful husband according to the rite of our Holy Mother, the Catholic Church?"

Her gaze never left his. "I will." As he had done, she said her vows, her fingers now tightly clutching his. "I, Christine Jeanne Daaé, take you, Angel Erik Noir, for my husband, to have and to hold, from this day forward, for better, for worse, for richer, for poorer, in sickness and in health, until death do us part." 

Angel blinked back tears of his own, raising their joined hands and gently kissing the back of her fingers. _"How many times have I called your name, wondered if you hear me, see me, know the things I'm feeling in my soul? You turned around and you answered me, you held out your arms to me, helped me when I needed you the most. You set me free, finally I see, you set me free. In you I can believe. You set me free. You're everything to me, you set me free."_

Letting go of her hands, Angel lifted her veil, cupping Christine's face in his palms, his thumbs wiping away her tears. Reaching up, she gently removed his mask, passing it to Tristan, her hand curving around his cheek as she sang to him, her voice thick with emotion. _" I was alone when you came to me, saw that I was naked, broken. I couldn't find the strength to carry on. You lifted me up and you sheltered me, you opened up your heart to me. Loved me when I needed you the most. You set me free, finally I see. You set me free, in you I can believe. You set me free. You're the one who loved me. You're the one who opened up your heart to me. You set me free."_

Tristan handed Angel the ring then, a simple gold band he placed on Christine's finger as he said, "With this ring I thee wed, and pledge thee my troth." 

Christine's hands were shaking so badly he was afraid she would drop the ring Meg gave her, but she managed to slide it onto his finger. "With this ring I thee wed, and pledge thee my troth." 

Together their voices rang through the empty church. _"You give me strength to carry on, you give me faith. You give me love, you give me joy, you give me sunshine in my life. You set me free!"_

As the last note faded away, the priest said, "You may kiss the bride", but Christine was already in Angel's arms. He bent his head down, his lips lightly brushing over hers. Christine wrapped her arm around his neck, drawing him closer, her mouth warm and tender against his. When they broke apart, he whispered, "I love you," in her ear. 

"Angel," she sighed, "I love you." Then Tristan was shaking his hand, and Cecilié and Meg were hugging and kissing them both. The signing of the marriage license was a blur, and it wasn't until they were all inside the carriage on the way back to the opera house that he truly realized the woman tucked in against his side was now his to love forever. 

It was a beautifully terrifying thought.


	18. Alone At Last

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just a warning that this is the wedding night chapter, so rating is somewhere between mature and explicit.

Christine slid her arm around her Angel's waist under his cloak as they said their good-byes to Cecilié, Meg and Tristan. Upon the group's return to the opera house, they had celebrated with champagne and cake in Cecilié's rooms. After far too many toasts, Christine's head was beginning to spin, and she had gratefully let her Angel find an excuse for them to leave. The door to Madame Giry's apartment closed behind them at last, and they were alone in the deserted hallway. 

"Oh, Angel," she murmured, leaning heavily against him and fighting back a yawn. 

Smiling down at her, he pressed a kiss to her curls. "I know it's late, my love, and we both have a big day tomorrow." He led her swiftly through the corridors and into the hidden passageways that led to his home. Their home, she reminded herself, at least until tomorrow night. 

She stepped out in front of him, turning to face him. Her Angel came to a stop, his left eyebrow raising in a silent question. "Kiss me," Christine demanded, her arms going around his neck.

With a low chuckle, he obliged her. "You realize," he said when he broke the kiss to take a breath, "that the more often you stop us, the longer it will take to finally get to our wedding night." 

She smirked at him, her hand sliding down his chest to rest on his stomach. "In a hurry are you?" Laughing, she took off at a run down the familiar hallway. 

He caught up with her just before she reached the gondola. She let out a breathless squeal as he grabbed her about the waist, swinging her around until her back was against the wall. He planted a hand on the stone on either side of her shoulders. "And just where do you think you are going?"

Christine's hand found the back of his head, drawing him down for a slow, exploratory kiss. Her Angel moaned into her mouth, moving closer. Heat radiated across the millimeters still separating them, and need welled up inside her like water from a spring.

They had touched and teased each other before but there had always been an invisible line between them, an unconscious but mutually agreed upon boundary. She crossed it now, her fingers curling around his hip, closing the gap between them. "Christine..." he growled, the way he rolled the "R" sending shivers down her spine. His hands dropped to her waist as he grazed his teeth across the flesh of her throat. She felt wild and brave as she grasped his fingers, guiding his hands up. 

He made an attempt to stroke her breasts through her dress, but the stiff fabric and whale-bone of her corset prevented her from feeling anything. She groaned in frustration. Her Angel leaned his forehead against hers, his hands coming to rest lightly on her bare shoulders underneath her cloak, his fingers stroking her skin. "The man who invented the corset should be shot," he murmured. "I should be shot for creating this dress." He didn't move for a long moment, and his stillness seemed to calm the tingling sensation that fluttered just underneath her skin. She let out a sigh, and he kissed her temple. "Come, my dear, home is only a short boat ride away." 

Taking her hand, he led her to the gondola and helped her in. Instead of sitting though, she stood behind him as he poled the little boat through the waterways. She leaned against him, her hand on his shoulder, her cheek pressed against the soft wool of his cape. Closing her eyes, she lost herself in the feel of his muscles moving underneath her. He was her strong, beautiful Angel...her husband.

The silence was broken only by the faint rippling sound of the boat gliding through the water. The noise soothed her and by the time they reached the lair, Christine was nearly asleep standing up. Angel gave Christine a hand out of the gondola then took her cloak. "Wait here," he said mysteriously.

She was puzzled, but did as he said. He crossed the lair, dodging the trunks and piles of paper taking up most of the space, then ascending into the bedroom. 

Christine walked over to one of the mirrors and examined her reflection. Marriage seemed to have left her rather disheveled looking. Her face was pale and her eyes still puffy from the tears she had shed at the church. Her hair had slipped its pins on one side and she took the rest of them out, running her fingers through it to get rid of the tangles. Leaning over, she gave her head a good shake, hearing a few more hairpins clink to the floor. When she looked back up at her image in the glass, Angel was standing behind her, a bemused expression on his face. He had discarded his cloak, frock coat and vest she noticed as he held out his hand to her.

"If you'll come with me, Madame Noir," he requested, giving her a gentle smile.

Christine laid her hand in his, following him in silence across the room to the stairs leading up to the bedroom. "If you would close your eyes, please," he said, his warm voice sending a shiver through her.

She did as she was told, tentatively searching for each step with her toes before setting her foot down. Arriving at the top without incident, she paused at the sudden scent of flowers. "Angel?"

"Open your eyes, Christine."

The room was filled with roses of every size and color. Rose petals were strewn on the floor in a scarlet pathway to the swan bed. More petals, white this time, were scattered over the crimson sheets. Candles flickered in two large candelabrums, shedding enough light to give the room a golden, ethereal glow. "Oh, Angel," she whispered, feeling tears fill her eyes for what seemed like the hundredth time that night. "It's perfect."

* * *

Something seemed to burst into flame within him at her words. She turned toward him, a smile curving her lips, her eyes sparkling in the candlelight. Slowly he brought his hands up, threading his fingers through her hair, his thumbs brushing across her cheeks.

He kissed her softly, feeling her lips yield and part to him, her tongue grazing against his. A shiver went through him. His hands moved to her neck and he stroked her silken skin as her fingers tugged the knot from his ascot and let it drop to the floor.

His fingertips drew aimless patterns along her bare shoulders as he continued to kiss her, desire growing in the pit of his stomach. Her touch seemed to burn him through the fine lawn of his shirt, her nimble fingers slipping the buttons free of their holes. 

Her lips left his, trailing over his chin and down his neck, her teeth nipping at the hollow of his throat. He let out a hissed breath, his hands gliding down her back, searching for the laces holding her dress closed.

Her hands slipped inside the opening of his shirt, the soft pads of her fingers brushing over his nipples. "Christine!" he gasped, his eyes going wide at the electrifying sensation. She smiled up at him then kissed the point of his collarbone as she pushed his shirt off his shoulders. He trembled, passion and frustration both building inside him. She would have him completely stripped in a moment and he had not yet found the tie to her dress.

She dipped her head lower, planting little kisses over his chest. The silky caress of her hair against his already overly sensitive skin was too much for him to bear. 

"Christine, stop!" It came out as a ragged snarl. He grabbed her hands as they headed for the buttons on his trousers, his fingers digging into her wrists. She looked up at him, her expression hurt and confused. He took a shuddering breath, trying to calm himself. Letting go of her hands, he grasped her by the shoulders and turned her gently so that her back was toward him. His fingers went to the lacing. 

"Oh," she breathed softly, the hint of a laugh coloring the single word. Reaching up, she pulled her mass of chocolate curls to one side and over her shoulder. 

He pressed a kiss to the crown of her head. "Thank you," he murmured, feeling a semblance of control returning. Or perhaps not. The tangle of laces was knotted. Somehow he did not think stalking off in search of a knife would be appropriate. The knot stubbornly refused to yield to his trembling hands, and Angel felt all his plans for a perfect wedding night slipping away. 

A drop of water appeared as if by magic on Christine's bare shoulder. 

"Angel?" She turned to face him, her hand going to his cheek. More tears dripped down his face, colliding with her fingers. 

"I'm sorry," he whispered. "I'm ruining everything. I can't get the knot and my hands are shaking and I have no idea what I'm doing…." 

Her brow furrowed in puzzlement, her gaze searching his face. Her hand moved up slightly, her thumb tracing a half circle below his left eye. She finally said, "Have you slept at all these past three days?" 

He bit his lip, shaking his head slightly. Christine made an exasperated noise, but he got the feeling it was directed more toward herself than at him. Her fingers stroked his face gently. "I'm not starting out very well as your wife, am I, if I didn't even notice you not sleeping."

"There was so much to do–" he interjected, not wanting her to take all the blame on herself. 

"Yes, and I should have been helping you," she snapped, her self anger now fully evident. "My God, you're still recovering from a near fatal injury! I should have—"

"Christine, please," he said as he took both her hands in his. "What's done is done." She said something under her breath he didn't catch then she slipped her arms about his waist and leaned her head against his bare chest.

"I think," she said quietly, "that perhaps our first time should be saved for a night when we will both be awake enough to enjoy it." As if to emphasize her point, she yawned hard enough that Angel could feel her shudder against him. 

He held her a moment longer, a mixture of disappointment and relief filling him. She was right; they should wait. But some small part of him still felt like he had failed her.

Christine moved back a bit and kissed him lightly. "Now perhaps you can find a knife or some scissors and get me out of this dress?"

Several minutes later, Christine was free of the offending gown and Angel watched as she packed it away carefully in the sole trunk remaining in the bedroom. He undressed slowly, resisting the urge to turn his back to her as he had done for so many nights. She was his wife now; he was allowed to look.

Christine smiled at him as she unfastened her garters and rolled her cream-colored stockings neatly down her trim legs. A surge of pure lust shot through him, and Angel found himself having to look away to keep some shred of control over himself. He concentrated on changing his own clothes, and when he finally dared look at her again, she was demurely clad in the same cotton nightgown she had worn for the past month. 

He blew out most of the candles and seated himself in the bed with a sigh, resting his back against the headboard. Christine sat down on the edge, running a brush through her hair. The glow from the candles outlined her curves through her thin shift and streaked her hair with strands of gold. Her simple beauty stole the breath from his lungs, and he covered his eyes to stem the desire flooding his veins. He could feel her curious gaze on his skin. "Angel?"

He peered at her through his fingers. "You are a tease, Madame. An incorrigible tease. Give me the brush."

Her eyes widened slightly and she grinned at him. Crawling onto the mattress, she settled herself between his splayed legs, her back to him. Taking his hand, she pressed the hairbrush into it. "Be gentle," she admonished him.

Angel leaned forward, planting a kiss on her shoulder. "Always, my love." He carded his fingers through her curls, working through the major tangles with his hands before using the brush on the remaining snarls. Her hair was like raw silk to the touch and full of the scent of roses and the vanilla soap she used. He leaned forward, burying his face in it for a moment then he separated it into three sections and plaited it for her. He kissed the back of her neck when he was done. "There, that ought to keep it from tangling over night." 

Letting out a happy sigh, Christine leaned back against him and Angel slid his arms around her, resting his cheek against the top of her head. "I should have you do that for me every night." 

"It would be my pleasure," he responded, letting go of her enough to lie down fully on the mattress. She lay down next to him, her head pillowed on his shoulder, her arm around his waist. 

He almost believed she had succumbed to sleep when she said, "May I ask you something, Angel?" 

"Of course."

There was a long moment of silence, and he could feel her hesitancy. Finally, Christine said, "When you were fighting with my dress earlier, you said you had no idea what you were doing. Did you truly mean that?" 

Angel wasn't quite sure how to answer her, and an embarrassed flush made his cheeks burn. "I'm not sure what you're asking," he responded.

Now Christine was squirming beside him, the subject they were dancing around making her as uncomfortable as he was. "Are you–are you–I mean, you haven't–because I'm—" She buried her face in the curve of his shoulder. "Forget I asked," she said, her voice muffled. 

He sighed, stroking her hair gently. "Are you trying to ask me if I've been with a woman before?" 

She shifted in the bed, raising up on one elbow to peer down at him. "Yes, I just–I just wanted to know if there was anyone before me...." she whispered. 

Tears prickled his eyes and he blinked them back, swallowing the lump that had suddenly appeared in his throat. "No, Christine," he answered softly. "You are the first. The first woman I ever kissed, and the first woman, the only woman, I will eventually make love to." 

She plopped down on the bed again, on her back this time, staring up at the ceiling. He waited patiently, knowing she wasn't finished with her questions. Rolling toward him again, she asked, "But why? I mean, I'm not naive–"

"No, you're not," he agreed. 

"I know that men are not like women, that they can't control their...urges...as well as we can, or at least that's what Cecilié has always told me. And I know that men without wives or mistresses can go to a _fille de joie_ to–satisfy those urges." Christine shook her head, frustrated at not being able to explain. "I would think that you–that they would have–.that they wouldn't have turned you away if you offered them enough _francs_ –surely they have seen stranger things than a man in a mask...." Her voice trailed off as she caught sight of the expression on his face. "I'm saying it all wrong," she whispered, "I'm sorry, I'm sorry. I'm hurting you...." 

She touched his cheek, her fingertips brushing away his tears. She kissed him, too, kissed his forehead, his cheeks, his lips. Finally she wound her arms around him, holding him tightly, laying her head on his shoulder. 

He rolled toward her, so that they were face to face, brushing his lips against hers gently. Wrapping an arm around her, he pulled her close, pressing his damaged cheek against her hair. Several minutes passed before he spoke, his voice husky with long suppressed emotion. "I thought about it many times over the years. I–I even went once, to a _bordel_ , 10,000 _francs_ burning a hole in my purse." A tremor went through him and he felt Christine's arms tighten around his back.

"I stood outside for hours, watching men come and go, watching the shadows behind the curtains. It was the only way, I thought, the only way I would ever know what it was like to be with a woman. And yet I was afraid, though not of how they might look at me or what they would whisper among themselves once I was gone. I was afraid that somehow it would feel _wrong_ , that I would have spent my life up to that point not knowing, and that once I entered that doorway, once I had lain with a woman, the reality of it would never live up to what I imagined. And I knew in my heart that mindless rutting wasn't what I wanted. I wanted love." A tear dripped from his cheek into her hair.

"Angel," she whispered, "You don't–"

He shook his head, moving back enough to look into her eyes. "I decided that I would rather not know. I decided–I decided that I would deny myself the joys of the flesh for the chance to love someone, if only from the shadows and if only for a moment." He took a shuddering breath, awaiting her response.

Christine stared into his eyes for several heartbeats, her hand on his cheek. "You've found your someone to love–and she loves you back." She kissed him then, her lips warm and soft and tasting of tears. 

"Christine–"

She put two fingers to his lips, gently silencing him. "Close your eyes." 

"What?"

"I did it for you earlier. Close your eyes." 

He did as she requested, feeling her squirm about on the mattress for what seemed an eternity, but was probably only a few seconds. 

The unexpected brush of her bare skin against his was soft as velvet. "Christine?" he whispered in shock, opening his eyes. Her face was close enough to his that he could feel the gentle warmth of her breath on his cheek, her eyes dark with desire. Her fingertips ghosted across his chest and down, and he let out a gasp as she touched him intimately.

"Let me love you, my Angel," she breathed. "Let me give you what you've waited for all these years." 

"Oh, Christine..." he murmured, pressing his lips to her throat, his hands stroking her warm skin. Her fingers tangled in his hair, guiding his kisses lower. He ran his tongue along the defined line of her collarbone, feeling her shiver. He moved ever downward, his mouth finding the small swell of her breast, his lips closing over her dusky pink nipple. She cried out as he suckled her instinctively, her fingertips digging into his scalp and his shoulder. As he flicked his tongue against her tight nipple, her hips bucked into him, the downy brush of hair against his belly startling him. 

Angel raised his head to look down at her, truly seeing her fully for the first time. His fantasies could not compare to the ethereal beauty that was his Christine, his wife. He ran his hand down her side, tracing the line of her body. Everything about her was long and lean, from the firm muscles of her graceful arms to the slight curve of her hips to the elegant length of her dancer's legs. He stroked his hand up the inside of her thigh, but she caught his wrist before his fingers found her body's secrets. 

"Not yet, my love," she sighed in his ear. A hand on his shoulder pushed him down on his back on the mattress as she leaned over him. "While it's true we are both novices at this game," she said with a sly smile, "you are the one who has been denied even the simplest of touches for far too long. Be still now, and let me give you joy." 

She had kissed him numerous times over the past month, and Angel had kept a careful count of them, treasuring each new one as if it would be the last he would ever receive. Now he was lost in the deluge of her kisses as she caressed his face with her lips. Her hands flowed over his shoulders and down his body as her teeth nibbled at his throat. She kissed the center of his chest, her palm smoothing over his belly, a fingertip tracing the still healing wound that had brought them together. 

"Christine," he moaned as her lips brushed the soft skin just below his navel. One hand clenched the bed sheets, the other her long braid as a shudder went through him. She rubbed her cheek against his stomach, her warm breath tickling. His chuckle turned into a groan of longing as she laid the flat of her hand on him lightly. His hips surged up against her palm, a wild cry erupting from his throat as her fingers curved around his hard length, sliding the silk he wore deliciously over his skin. 

"God! Christine, please!" Angel begged her, unsure exactly what he was pleading for. Nimble fingers loosened the tie holding his pajama trousers closed. Thumbs hooked under the waistband and slowly drew them down his thighs and off. 

She knelt at his feet, smiling up at him, the yellow light from the candles making her skin glow golden. Her braid he had so lovingly plaited was coming loose, her hair a corona of chestnut fire around her head. Angel inhaled slowly, afraid almost to breathe in the presence of this sensual goddess who looked upon him with such love in her dark eyes. 

Her hands stroked down his right calf and grasped his ankle, lifting his heel to rest on her thigh. She caressed his foot, her fingers applying firm pressure, the sensation both delicious and unsettling at the same time. "What are you doing?" he asked.

The smile she gave him was secretive. "Touching you where no one's touched you before. It's a foot massage. Nothing is more wonderful after a long day of dancing."

"I can think of something I'd like massaged better," he murmured, raising up on his elbows to look at her. 

"Oh?" She dragged a knuckle across his instep, and a jolt of pleasure traveled up his leg to center in his groin. 

Gasping, Angel threw his head back as her hands glided up his lower legs, the arousing motion pausing briefly so she could kiss the inside of his knees. Fingertips trailed abstract patterns over his inner thighs, and he dug both hands into the sheets, trembling. "Please, Christine, please…" he rasped. 

She moved up and to the side, lying down next to him, entwining her leg between his. He grasped the back of her head roughly, his lips connecting with hers in a forceful kiss. Christine met him eagerly, her tongue parting his lips as she devoured him. Her hand closed around him, and he moaned into her mouth as she stroked him firmly, her fingers pushing his foreskin back as her thumb slid over the sensitive crown. Whatever control Angel had left shattered at her bold touch. He thrust into her hand, his orgasm sending sparks of ecstasy shooting along his limbs as he gave a low, guttural cry. 

He pressed his face into the curve of Christine's neck as the tremors faded. She cradled him in her arms, stroking his hair while she whispered words of love to him. When he came back to earth, she was kissing the damaged side of his face tenderly. He touched her under the chin, turning her face so he could look into her eyes. "How did you know?" he asked, his voice hoarse. "How did you know where to touch me?" For a moment Angel envisioned his wife with the boy, but he forced that image away. There were no secrets between them; she would have spoken of it if the boy had taken liberties with her. 

Christine's tongue peeked out to wet her lower lip as her mouth curved in a smile. "You slept a great deal when you were ill, and I found your extensive library." Her cheek grew warm under his hand. "It was interesting reading. And," she continued a little more hesitantly, "I asked La Carlotta for advice." 

Angel's eyes widened. "She would be the last person I would think you would seek out."

She gave a little shrug. "Ever since I told her I was leaving the opera house, she has been very kind to me. She is never without one or more suitors, so I simply asked her what her secret was. She was kind enough to tell me." 

Bending his head down, Angel began to nibble at Christine's neck. "Hmm. And what was her advice?" 

Her fingers tightened painfully in his hair as he gently sunk his teeth into her shoulder. "She said--she said to not be afraid of anything...oh, yes, Angel...to be bold in bed, because intercourse is so much better when both of us participate." She gave a little cry as he lightly pinched a nipple then swirled his tongue over it. 

"Fascinating," he murmured against her skin, "but enough talking." He licked a trail from one breast to the other as his hand stroked down the gentle swell of her stomach. Her legs parted for him, and he ran his fingertips lightly over the soft curls there before seeking out her body's entrance. He explored slowly, finding a hard nub of flesh that caused her to sigh and moan when he stroked it. 

Angel shifted his position on the bed, his breath hitching as his growing erection rubbed against her thigh. Christine clasped his arm tightly as his finger circled her entrance before slipping inside. She called out his name, and he leaned his cheek against her shoulder, an exquisite shiver going through him at the thought that soon he would be inside that warm, tight embrace.

She was the one begging for release now. "Angel, please, I need you," she cried. 

He pulled her over onto her side facing him, wrapping her leg over his hip. They fumbled a kiss as she guided him to her. "Christine, I love you," he growled, and then they were one, two halves of the same soul finally united.

Their coupling was slow and sweet, the fevered rush of earlier gone, vanished as the flames of lust burned down to glowing coals, leaving nothing behind but the pure, true essence of their love. He gave himself up to her, freely, completely, heart and mind, body and soul. He was hers forever, her lover, her husband, her Angel, until death do them part.

Though as his body melted into hers and she called out his name, somehow even death did not seem strong enough to sever the ties binding them together.

He cradled her in his arms afterward, not wanting to let go. He closed his eyes, listened to her breathing slow into the steady rhythm of sleep, and for a moment he could still remember the shimmering vision appearing in his mind's eye as they had found completeness in each other. Two angels joined together in the throes of passion, one with wings as white as the foam on a storm-tossed sea, the other's feathers as dark as the storm that churned the waves. 

He wondered what Christine had felt in that moment, if she had shared his waking dream. She stirred in his arms, pressing a sleepy kiss to his shoulder. Somehow that small gesture made him think she had.


	19. Rooftop Rendezvous Redeux

Cheers and applause rang throughout the Opera Populaire as Christine took her last bow, the enthusiastic crowd pelting the stage with flowers. Straightening, she looked out into the sea of smiling faces and allowed herself a long shiver of excitement. This was where she belonged, on the stage, baring her heart and soul through her song. 

As the curtains finally closed, she handed the bouquet of flowers the managers had given her to the first person she saw. She could feel their confused gaze on her as she gathered her skirts up and ran toward her dressing room. After all, she had a train to catch. 

Cecilié met her at her dressing room door and followed her inside. "You were magnificent, Christine. I've never heard you sing so well." 

Christine beamed at her. "Did he see? Did my Angel hear? Box 5 was empty tonight—"

Cecilié turned Christine away from her so she could unfasten her dress. "I'm sure he was there, Christine, seeing as the Vicomte was not." For a moment, Christine wondered why Raoul had not been to the performance. He had been to all the others, even after she had broken their engagement. She was relieved at not having to deal with him, but it did strike her as somewhat out of character for him. Perhaps he had finally given up in his misguided attempts to 'protect' her after yesterday's incident. The back of Christine's dress unfastened, Cecilié loosened her corset laces as well, then pushed her in the direction of the changing screen as a knock came at the door. 

"Your traveling clothes are already laid out, my dear. I'll send whoever it is away." Christine heard the roar of voices from the crowded hallway as the door was opened then sudden silence as it was shut again. 

She changed quickly into a blouse and loose traveling skirt without a bustle. Coming out from behind the screen, she sat down at the vanity and took her hair down. It was only when she was reaching for her brush that she noticed the single red rose atop the dressing table. 

A warmth spread through her that had nothing to do with the temperature in the room. She picked up the rose, inhaling its soft, sweet scent, running her fingers over the black satin ribbon. "Angel..." she whispered. He hadn't forgotten their little tradition. She set the flower down then spied a note that had been lying beneath it. Opening the folded piece of paper, she read, "Meet me on the roof after the performance." 

A smile crossed her lips. Her husband was far and away the more romantic of the two of them. She had thoughts only of how quickly she could leave for the train station, while he wanted one last moonlight moment with her and the beauty that was Paris at night. Quickly she scrubbed off her heavy stage makeup and ran the brush through her hair. Picking up her jacket from the chair, she put it on, not bothering with buttoning it in her haste. Swinging her cloak over her shoulders, she plucked the rose from the vanity top and stepped out into the hallway. 

She wound her way through the crush of people, nodding politely at their compliments on her performance. Finally, she made it to the stairs and began to climb. Slightly out of breath and several minutes later, she stood before the door leading to the rooftop. Memories came surging back, the night she had betrayed her Angel a knife wound to her heart that was quickly replaced by the remembrance of his complete and utter joy when she had told him she would marry him. 

Tonight Christine would wrap her arms around him and take a last long look at the city and the opera house that had been their home for so many years. She would tell him she loved him and kiss him under the Paris stars one more time. Well, perhaps she would kiss him more than once. A giddy excitement fizzed inside her, reminding her of the bubbles of champagne. She couldn't keep the grin from her face as she flung open the door and rushed into the night. 

The roof was deserted. 

Christine came to a stop behind the statue of Apollo, a furrow creasing her brow. Perhaps her Angel had been delayed. Or perhaps it was a game, though she didn't think they had enough time for games. "Angel?" she called softly, the wind whistling around the eaves and making her shiver. There was no reply. 

She crossed the roof to his favorite hiding place, the statue of Pegasus furthest from the door to the opera house. There was no sign of him in the shadows. Walking back toward Apollo, she approached the edge of the roof, peering down past the wide ledge two stories below to the people and carriages leaving the front of the opera house. Where was her Angel? 

The bells of the Madeleine began to ring, chiming the half-hour. Eleven-thirty! Their train left in a little over an hour! Whirling around, Christine headed for the exit from the roof as a figure moved within the shadows. She gasped then laughed shakily. "There you are." 

The man came toward her. But instead of her Angel, Raoul de Chagny stepped into the light. "Surprised, Christine?"

She took a step back in shock, her mind whirling, trying to fit the pieces into some kind of whole that made sense. 

Raoul moved toward her slowly, his expression darker than she had ever seen it. Her gaze took in his closed fists, the sword that hung at his side. "You lied to me, Christine," he hissed between clenched teeth. "You told me he was dead."

She looked down at the rose in her hand and things suddenly became very clear. She felt their freedom, so nearly in their grasp, slipping away. Tears filled her eyes as she realized she held her Angel's life, their life together, in her hands. It was up to her to save them both. 

"You—you left me the rose and the note?" Christine stammered, drawing on her fear to make her reactions believable. "Why would you do such a thing? Why would you make me believe my Angel was still alive?"

Raoul came to a halt in front of her. "If he were truly dead, Christine, if, as I have so often been told in the past weeks, 'he died in your arms' then you wouldn't be here. You would have known it was a trick." 

One she had blindly fallen for. She closed her eyes, feeling tears seep through her lashes. Raoul took hold of her by the shoulders and shook her. "Enough of your games, Christine! Where is he?" 

She opened her eyes but didn't raise them, instead staring at the rose in her hands. "He's dead, Raoul. When I saw the rose I thought—I thought I had been wrong. I thought he'd gone away, to get well, and now he'd come for me. Or maybe, maybe he truly was an angel and now—and now..." She finally looked up at Raoul, the tears spilling down her cheeks. "How could you do this to me, Raoul? How could you be so cruel? I loved him!" 

The first hint of uncertainty flared in his eyes and he let go of her, taking a step back. As quickly as it appeared, his hesitation vanished at her declaration of love. "He is a monster, Christine! A hideous, deformed freak whose parents didn't even want him! He's a foul, evil fiend, a murderer! And you think you love him! You are a child, Christine, a foolish, witless child! He will destroy you as surely as he has destroyed all that's good!" 

Rage surged like a stormy sea through Christine. Never had she felt such anger, such fury. She lashed out at Raoul, her left hand striking him hard across the face. As she reared back to hit him again, he grabbed her wrist. His mouth opened as if to speak, but no sound came out. He pulled her hand up between them, staring at it, an expression of what seemed to Christine to be horror on his face. For a moment she wondered what was so astonishing about her hand, and then she knew.

"Whose ring is this, Christine?" Raoul whispered, his face slowly turning a bright crimson. When she didn't answer, he shook her. "Whose ring is it!" he screamed. 

The answer came not from Christine, but from the shadows behind her. "Mine."


	20. The Final Threshold

Angel moved toward the pair, flowing over the rooftop like a great cat. "Christine wears my ring," he repeated, every muscle quivering with the effort to keep himself in check. "Get your hands off my wife!"

The boy's eyes widened at the word "wife" and he thrust Christine behind him, drawing his sword. "This time I'll make sure you're dead!" he growled. He lunged toward Angel, who easily stepped to the side, ignoring the opportunity to grab the boy round the neck as he slid past him on the right. Instead he hooked his arm over the boy's sword arm and brought his knee up hard into the younger man's stomach. The boy gasped for air, staggering away from Angel as he released his hold on him. 

They faced each other again, the boy panting, his left arm curled over his abdomen. The ghost of a smile lifted the corners of Angel's mouth as he waited patiently, bouncing lightly on the balls of his feet. The boy advanced with a rush, slashing with the rapier this time instead of thrusting. Angel whirled away to the left, feeling the puff of displaced air on his cheek as the weapon just missed slicing the top of his shoulder. His turn brought him inside the other man's defense for the second time and Angel drove his elbow into his opponent's kidney. 

The boy went to one knee, but was up in an instant, charging Angel, his eyes dark with frustration and fury, his teeth bared in a snarl.

Angel dodged again, whipping his cape round like a Spanish matador. The end of it caught the boy across the face, momentarily blinding him. When he blinked his watering eyes open, Christine stood at Angel's side. "Enough, both of you!" she cried. Angel tried to tug her behind him, but she would have none of it, pulling her arm free and moving to stand in front of him. 

The boy stared at the two of them, disgust in his eyes. "Release her, monster, or I shall run you through a second time!" 

A smirk twisted Angel's lips. "I have no hold on Christine. She goes where she chooses. And as for running me through, assuming you could, that would make you the same as me, a murderer, as I am unarmed, monsieur." He spread his arms wide, showing he bore no weapons. 

The boy's brow furrowed at this revelation. So he still had some shred of honor about him, Angel mused. 

The boy turned his gaze on Christine. "He said you are free. Prove it by coming with me, Christine. I know you do not wish to spend the rest of your life hiding in the cellars with him! I will take you away from all this, surround you with the beautiful things you deserve, give you a life in the sun."

"And I will be what? Your mistress? I am married, Raoul!" Christine spat. Angel could see her shoulders shaking in her anger. 

"The Church will certainly annul your marriage once they know the truth, that your husband is a murderer. Please, Christine. I can give you everything he can't. I'll spare his life, I'll let him go free, if only you will come with me." He stretched out his left hand toward her. "Make your choice, Christine."

Angel held his breath, a tiny part of him wishing she would go, knowing that whatever life they had together would not be the life of happy ease the boy offered. He loved her enough to want that for her, though it would destroy him should she accept it. 

Christine stepped back, her hand finding Angel's, her fingers entwining with his. He exhaled loudly, feeling foolish. There was nothing to choose. Christine had made her decision bending over a dying man in a frozen cemetery, and again last night, when she had taken him for her husband. 

"There is no choice, Raoul. There never has been. I am my Angel's, heart and soul, body and mind, and he is mine." 

The boy's face took on a purplish color at her words. "If that is what you wish, Christine, very well." He took a step toward them, wielding his sword menacingly. "But I will have justice for your _angel's_ victims. We shall all go inside and I shall call for the gendarmes."

"So you would condemn me to the guillotine, Raoul?" Christine asked quietly. 

He paled. "What?" 

"Angel is my husband. I have hid and aided him this past month. His crimes are my crimes now in the eyes of the law." She flicked her tongue over her lips, her chin coming up stubbornly. 

The tip of the boy's sword quivered, then held steady at the level of Angel's heart. "I will tell them you were under a spell, that you did not know what you were doing. Who will believe the word of a murderer and a 16-year-old chorus girl over a member of the nobility?" 

Christine turned to look up at Angel, and he could see her mind working furiously behind her dark eyes. He immediately saw what she could not. The only solution was to kill the boy; they would never be free otherwise. A few days ago, he would have choked the life out of the whelp without a second thought. The Phantom killed as easily as he breathed. But Christine's love had changed him. He was truly Angel now, and Angel would not kill so freely.

Her gaze met his, a question in her eyes, and he shook his head. For once, Angel had no answers for her.

Christine turned her face toward the boy. "Will you give us a moment, Raoul? I would like to say a few words to my husband before we are separated forever."

Not waiting for his reply, Christine reached up and removed her Angel's mask. His fists clenched at the boy's gasp of horror, but he didn't move, didn't shift his gaze from Christine's. She touched his face with her fingertips, starting at his forehead. She gently traced the ridges of red, twisted flesh, the missing eyebrow, the drooping eyelid, the gnarled side of his nose. Tears sprang to his eyes, and he fought to hold them back, unwilling to give the boy any further reason to pity him. 

She laid her palm against his right cheek, the gold of her wedding ring cold on his skin. The hand still holding his mask she wrapped round his waist then she raised up on her toes and touched her lips to his. He closed his eyes and slipped his arms around her, deepening the kiss. When they finally broke apart, Angel buried his face in her hair, wanting to imprint everything about her into his memory, the silk of her curls, the warmth of her skin, the faint scent of roses that seemed to always cling to her. 

Some how he had known it would come to this, that their plans of a life together would never happen. People like him didn't deserve happiness. Christine had been a fluke, an aberration in Fate's grand design. She had never been meant to love him, and now the universe was rectifying that error. He searched futilely for a way out, a way to thwart their miserable destiny. He couldn't kill the boy but perhaps he could knock him out, and they could escape. But Angel knew that would be condemning them to a life on the run, as the boy would never rest until he had rescued Christine from the monster. 

He moved back a bit and looked down into Christine's beautiful, trusting eyes. Angel could not bear to think of her facing the guillotine, but neither could he stand thinking of her cold and hungry and ill, hiding with him in the catacombs underneath the city. He took her face in his hands and gently kissed her forehead. "Christine," he said softly, "take the boy's offer. I would not have you die for my sins."

Her tears were two glistening tracks down her cheeks. "I would not live without you," she replied in a steely whisper. She glanced at the boy, who stood several feet away, sword still at the ready. His expression was that of one who had just smelled something unpleasant. 

Laying her hand on Angel's chest over his heart, Christine whispered, "Are you still willing to follow me into the depths of hell?" 

The words stuck in his throat and he had to swallow past the lump they formed before he said, "Always, my love." 

She smiled at him and kissed him once more, taking his hand and locking her fingers with his. Then turning around, Christine raced toward the edge of the roof, her Angel right beside her.


	21. Song Taking Flight

Raoul couldn't hold back his gasp of revulsion as Christine pulled the mask from the Phantom's face. How could she bear to look at him? Oh, God, now she was touching him, running her fingers over his hideous, diseased face. He tried to look away as she leaned up to kiss the Phantom, but he couldn't move. The scene playing out before him held him spellbound. 

The Phantom wrapped Christine in his arms, his tall figure seeming to mold itself to her, his scarred visage hidden by her hair. When he finally straightened and took her face in his hands, Raoul could see how gently he touched her, how tenderly he pressed his lips to her forehead. For the first time, he felt a tendril of doubt creep through his heart. Could it be that the monster actually had real feelings for her?

He said something that made Christine look toward Raoul, then back up at the Phantom. She was crying. Raoul saw her lips moving, but he could not hear what she said. She kissed him again, taking his hand. 

Raoul was becoming impatient and was about to interrupt when Christine turned and ran toward the edge of the roof, the Phantom slightly behind her. She had leapt up onto the low wall surrounding the roof when he managed to find his voice. "Christine! No!"

Only the Phantom's strong arm wrapping around her waist kept her from flying off the building as he stepped onto the low wall beside her. They both turned to look at Raoul, Christine's expression tearful but defiant. The Phantom simply glared at his rival, daring him to interfere. 

Raoul directed his words to Christine. "What are you doing?" 

"The inevitable. I would end my life here and now than spend months separated from my Angel awaiting a trial that would only end with the same result." She held her head high, her hand over the Phantom's where it still curved around her middle.

He moved to stand a few feet from where they perched on the roof edge. "But suicide, Christine? That's a mortal sin! You'll spend eternity burning in hell!" 

"There is no hell as long as my Angel is beside me," she answered, reaching up behind her to cup the Phantom's deformed cheek. "I would rather die than live without him."

Raoul turned his gaze on the Phantom. "You would let her do this?"

He shrugged elegantly. "I would gladly join her. You cannot know what it's like to live a life of emptiness, a life without even the hope of love, the pain and despair eating at you day after day, until you think you must either die or go mad from the loneliness. Without Christine, my life is not worth living. If you send me to the guillotine, even if you save her by your lies and slander, you condemn us both to burn in hell, I beyond the veil and Christine here on earth."

"Christine?" he asked, his voice breaking. 

"He speaks the truth, Raoul. Please, if you wish me to live, if you wish me to be happy, just walk away. Forget you ever saw us. We will leave Paris tonight, never to return." Her tear-filled eyes pleaded with him. "Please, Raoul. This is where I belong, my Angel is the man I want to spend the rest of my life with, be it as long as fifty years or as short as the next five minutes. I know you feel some kind of responsibility to me, that you think you must save me from my fate. But this is where I'm supposed to be, Raoul. I know it with every beat of my heart, with every breath I take." 

She turned toward the Phantom, her arms going around his waist as she leaned her head against his shoulder. He brought his hand up to clasp the back of her neck underneath her windblown hair. He stared down at Raoul, his gaze filled with contempt. "It's your turn to choose, now, boy. Don't take all night!"

Pushing his hair back with his hand, Raoul stared up at the two of them. Christine had her face buried in the other man's chest, the Phantom's chin resting against the top of her head, his eyes still watching Raoul warily. Finally, the Vicomte came to a decision. "I need a promise from you," he said to the Phantom. "No more murders. If you cannot control yourself, if I ever hear you've killed again, I will hunt you to the ends of the earth." 

The Phantom laughed. "I can control my 'murderous' urges, monsieur, evidenced by the fact that you are still breathing. I swear no more killing, unless it is to protect Christine." 

Raoul shuddered at the implied threat that the Phantom could kill him any time he pleased. _Please, God, let me be doing the right thing._

Christine spoke up then. "And now I need a promise from you, Raoul. Give me your word that you shall let us leave Paris without hindrance, and that you shall never seek our whereabouts, nor set the police after us." 

He swallowed past the knot in his chest. "I give my word, Christine." So saying, he sheathed his sword. 

The Phantom jumped lightly down from the wall then lifted Christine to stand beside him. Raoul stared at the two of them for a moment then said, "Goodbye, Christine. I wish you a long and happy life."

She graced him with a final smile. "I wish the same for you. Goodbye, Raoul." 

He gave a curt nod to the Phantom then Raoul, Vicomte de Chagny, turned and walked out of Christine Daaé's life.

* * *

When the door to the opera house closed behind the Vicomte, Angel hugged Christine tightly. "Oh, you little minx," he murmured into her hair. "I think I have aged ten years in the past ten minutes. Whatever were you thinking?"

Christine laughed and smiled up at him. "It worked, didn't it? And I was thinking that if we actually had to jump, you would manage to land us on the ledge below." 

He peered over the edge of the roof and shuddered. "Though my name is now Angel, I'm afraid I cannot fly."

She wrapped her arms around his neck and kissed him softly, whispering, "When I'm with you, I truly feel as though I have wings. I love you, Angel."

He kissed her back, losing himself in the taste, the feel of her, until the tolling of the church bells caught his attention. Grabbing her hand, he headed for the secret exit from the rooftop. "Come, Christine. I hope Tristan has kept a cab waiting downstairs, otherwise we will miss our train." 

He stopped before the door and turned toward her, taking her face in his hands. He looked at her for a long moment, then said quietly, "Thank you, Christine, for choosing me, for loving me. I will do my best to make you proud of me." 

She turned her head, kissing the palm of his hand. "I already am, Angel, I already am." He smiled at her, then settled his mask into place before following her into the opera house.

* * *

He followed them to the train station. He wasn't quite sure why. Some remnant of the compulsion that had driven him to discover the truth after Christine's many rejections of him, perhaps. Or maybe he just wanted to make sure the creat—the man truly loved her and she him. 

And so the Vicomte de Chagny found himself hiding behind a pillar, peering at his former beloved and her husband as they said their good-byes to what he guessed amounted to their family. Madame Giry hugged and kissed them both, as did her daughter, Meg. The physician, Dr. Jarred, shook the Phantom's hand heartily and kissed Christine on the cheek. It was all so—so disgustingly normal. 

Part of Raoul wanted to scream, to yell, to point out to the oblivious travelers the monster in their midst. Christine chose that moment to wrap her arms about her husband and pull his cloaked head down for a lingering kiss.

Closing his eyes, Raoul let out a long breath, finally admitting to himself that it was over. Christine did not love him, and now he knew she never had. Her eyes had never lit up in that way for him, nor had she ever kissed him with such abandon. 

"Well, well, do my eyes deceive me? The Vicomte de Chagny spying on _la bourgeoisie_ at the train station?" drawled a feminine voice in his ear. 

Raoul opened his eyes to find a vaguely familiar-looking woman standing at his elbow, a fan fluttering in front of her face as she eyed Christine's little group critically. "Ah wait, they are no _bourgeoisie,_ but worse, theater people!" She gave a mock gasp and tapped Raoul on the arm with her folded fan. "Isn't that your fiancée, Vicomte?" 

"Ex-fiancée," he muttered under his breath, taking in the woman's expensive gown and fur coat. His gaze moved to her face and the blue eyes twinkling at him from underneath the wide black hat perched upon her blonde hair. "Do I know you, Madame?" 

She graced him with a smile, and he couldn't help but notice how soft and full her lips looked. "Baroness Sabrina de Montenant." She held out her gloved hand, and Raoul pressed a kiss to the back of her fingers automatically. He remembered her now; she was closer in age to his brother than him and had married the Baron a few years ago then been quickly widowed. She turned her attention back to the happy couple. "Christine Daaé, the opera singer, correct?" At Raoul's nod, she continued, "And I'm guessing that must be her new husband judging by how they cling to one another." 

Again, he nodded, suddenly feeling small and pathetic. 

She snapped her fan open and leaned toward him behind its cover. "And you the scorned lover spying on them as they ride the rails out of your life forever." He felt his cheeks flush. "How perfectly tawdry! And yet fascinating on a base level. I must admit I like to people watch myself, making up little stories about them." 

Together they watched as Christine and the Phantom boarded the train and disappeared as the whistle blew. The train began to move, and Raoul turned to go, only to find the Baroness linking her arm through his. "Come, my boy, I think a few drinks and the company of a woman will do you good. And of course, I must hear the whole story. Starting with the fact that Miss Daaé's husband appeared to be wearing a mask."

Raoul looked down at the small, voluptuous blonde and put his hand over hers where it grasped his arm. "I think I would like a drink." As they walked toward the station exit, he leaned toward her, putting his lips right next to her ear, whispering, "And he wears a mask because my ex-fiancée has married the Phantom of the Opera." 

She giggled in response and Raoul felt his heart grow a tiny bit lighter.


	22. Don Juan Triumphant

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here it is, the final chapter of "Stronger". The song used here is the final trio from ALW's Phantom of the Opera, lyrics by Charles Hart, revised lyrics by me.

**_Don Juan Triumphant_  
Act Two  
Final Scene**

In the cold light of dawn, Don Juan lay dying in the land of the dead. Betrayed by his second, Passarino, he had come alone to the cemetery to answer the challenge of the husband of one of the women he had so carelessly defiled. His sword had failed him and he had fallen, bested by a man who spat on him and walked away. For the first time in his life, Don Juan was frightened. 

A tall, featureless figure in a black, hooded cloak separated itself from the shadows and glided toward him over the frozen ground. Don Juan crawled backwards away from it until he ran up against a tombstone and could retreat no further. He put a hand to his wounded side. _"Who are you?"_

_"Fool! I am the Angel of Death, come to see you burn in hell for your sins!"_ boomed the thunderous voice of the _Teatro de Fenice's_ bass, Antonio Guioletta. 

Angel as Don Juan cringed at the sound, but regarded him proudly from behind his black mask. _"I will not go easily, sir."_

A barefoot girl clad in rags appeared outside the cemetery gate upstage center. _"Don Juan!"_ she called, her hands clenching around the bars of the locked gate, tugging futilely at it. _"Don Juan!"_

Death's attention shifted to the girl as Don Juan cried, _"Aminta...Aminta...Let me see her!"_

_"Be my guest, sir."_ He waved a bony, gray hand toward the fence. 

The gate swung open. A look of fright crossed Aminta's face but she squared her shoulders and entered the graveyard. Seeing Don Juan lying injured on the ground, she started to run toward him.

_"Señor, you should not worry. Did you think that I would harm her? Why would I make her pay for the sins which are yours?"_ Death flicked his fingers and flames sprung up around Don Juan, keeping Aminta from him.

Angel watched from within the circle of fire as Christine as Aminta stopped safely outside the flames, wringing her hands helplessly. Death's voice caught his attention again, and Angel turned his head toward the hooded figure.

_"Where are your amigos now? Give up this fight, for your life is done. Nothing can save you now—except perhaps Aminta!"_ He turned his blank countenance upon the girl. _"Give your pure soul to me, buy him Heaven with your love! Refuse me, and you send your lover to Hades! This is the choice, this is the point of no return!"_

Aminta moved closer to the fire, her gaze catching and holding Don Juan's. When she sang, her words were only for him, the man who had seduced her and tossed her aside, the man she would always love. _"The tears that I have shed since we did part, mean nothing now, you have my heart..."_

Angel couldn't help the swell of love that washed over him as he looked into Christine's eyes. He held out his hand toward her. _"Aminta, forgive me, please forgive me. I did it all and now I'm left with nothing."_

_"There's nothing to forgive. I love you. Day by day I've watched as my heart shattered..."_ she told him.

Death interrupted their tender moment. _"Too late for turning back, too late for prayers and useless pleading...."_

_"Give him your soul..."_ Don Juan warned Aminta.

_"...Past all hope of cries for help..."_

_"... and my life's still over..."_

_"... no point in fighting..."_

Angel's baritone blended seamlessly with Antonio's basso. _"Either way you choose, you cannot win..."_

_"So, do you give your soul to me or do you send him into hell?"_

Don Juan pleaded for the girl he suddenly realized he loved, but did not deserve. _"Why make her give her life to save me?"_

Christine's pure soprano rose over the men's darker tones as she moved toward Death. _"Angel of Darkness..."_

_"For pity's sake..."_

Death circled her, sizing her up. _"Past the point of no return..."_

Struggling to his feet, Don Juan moved as close to the flames as he dared. _"...Aminta, say no!"_

She fell to her knees in front of Death reaching out to grasp his robe. She shuddered as she touched him, as if he was the foulest thing she had ever felt, but she did not release her hold. _"Please let him go!"_

_"No more chances..."_ boomed Death.

Don Juan clutched the gravestone to keep himself upright. _"Don't throw your life away for my sake!"_ he screamed at Aminta. 

Letting go of Death's robes, Aminta turned toward Don Juan. _"When will you see my love?"_ For a moment that was all Angel could see, so brightly did Christine's love for him shine in her eyes.

_"...to repent, a place in Heaven you cannot earn,"_ Death sang over the lovers, bringing Angel's thoughts back to the stage.

_"I have used and abused you,"_ he told Aminta, trying to sway her from her decision.

She ignored him. _"Angel of Darkness..."_

_"You've passed the point of no return..."_

_"...please hear my plea—I give my soul freely...."_ Though her words were for Death, her gaze never moved from Angel's face.

_"She is mine now say your farewell!"_ Death waved his hand and the flames vanished. 

Defeated, Don Juan crumpled to the ground at the base of the headstone. Aminta rushed to his side, lifting him in her arms, leaning his head against her shoulder. Angel closed his eyes at the feel of Christine's warm skin against his cheek. Her fingers eased under the edge of the mask, and he held his breath as she lifted it away, the deformed side of his face hidden against her body. 

She cupped his face in her hand and looked down at him. Despite how often they had rehearsed it, Angel still couldn't stop the shiver that went through him at the moment he gazed back up at her, his face, his soul completely bared. 

_"Passionate lover of darkness..."_ she sang, and the rest of the world faded away, no one there but the two of them. _"What kind of pain have you known...God give me courage to show you, you won't die alone...."_ Christine bent over him, her lips meeting his in a kiss of infinite tenderness. 

A tear rolled down his cheek as they parted. He curled his arm around her neck, drawing her down for a final kiss as the stage went dark save for a single spotlight on the two of them. His arm slowly slipped from Aminta's neck to rest on his chest. His head lolled back on her shoulder. Don Juan was dead.

For a moment there was no sound in the theater save for Christine's sobbing as the spot tightened to just her. Then a haunting melody began and a soft light lit the stage, just behind where Aminta knelt surrounded by darkness. An angel appeared in the light, wings and gown glowing with an ethereal luminance. 

Don Juan stood at the angel's side, looking back at Aminta. _"Aminta...I love...you..."_

Slowly, Aminta's head came up as if she could hear him. Don Juan reached through the darkness toward her, his hand appearing within the circle of her spotlight. Aminta stared at his outstretched hand, an expression of puzzled joy spreading across her face. 

She raised her hand toward him. As her fingers grasped his, the stage went black and the curtain fell on the premiere performance of _Don Juan Triumphant._

* * *

A stunned Raoul de Chagny sat in his box at the _Grand Teatro de Fenice,_ unable to move, to even applaud after witnessing what he knew had been the performance of a lifetime. _Christine, my god, Christine_...she **was** Aminta. This was her story, hers and the Phantom's, a tale of a love so powerful it was capable of saving a man from hell. 

For several long seconds there was silence after the curtain fell, then with a deafening roar, the audience leapt to their feet, Raoul along with them, screaming "Bravo!" until his throat hurt. Beside him he could hear his new bride sobbing unrestrainedly, and with a start, he realized tears were running down his face as well. 

From somewhere she produced a handkerchief delicately edged in lace and handed it to him. Raoul wiped at his streaming eyes and then dabbed gently at the wetness on her cheeks. "Are you all right?" he asked, as he had never seen his normally unflappable wife cry before. 

She nodded. "I have been to hundreds of operas, but nothing has ever moved me like this. No wonder Christine married him." She took the arm her husband offered her. "No offense, dear." 

Raoul gave a little laugh and smiled down at her. "None taken. I know now Christine was not the woman for me." Tilting his head down, he brushed his lips over hers. After the cast had taken their curtain calls, and basked in the long and loud standing ovation, he leaned toward her and said, "Come, there's a party downstairs, and with any luck I will be able to introduce you to her." 

Leaving the box, the couple slowly made their way down to the main lobby and then to the large ballroom where the party was being held. They had just entered, and Raoul had grabbed two glasses of champagne from a passing waiter, when a tall, dark-haired man with a smallpox-scarred face stepped on a dais at the end of the room and called for the crowd's attention. 

"Signors and signoras, I am Gregorio Donato, and as owner of the _Gran Teatro de Fenice_ , it gives me great pleasure to introduce the star of tonight's premiere of _Don Juan Triumphant,_ Signora Christine Noir!" 

Christine took the hand the man extended to her and gracefully ascended the few steps to the stage. She was even more beautiful than Raoul remembered, dressed in a red silk dress that clung to her curves and bared her shoulders. Her hair was pinned up with several loose curls framing her face. His wife tugged at his arm. "I must find out the name of her dress designer," she whispered. "Imagine the looks on their faces in Paris if I show up at the next society ball in something like that!" 

Christine curtsied in response to the applause and cheers from the room full of opera patrons. As Signor Donato moved forward to speak again, Raoul noticed that her attention had switched from the audience to someone off to one side of the platform. 

"And may I introduce a true genius, a man of many talents, the composer of tonight's opera and our Don Juan, the _Teatro de Fenice's_ artistic director, Signor Angel Noir!"

Amid cries of "Bravo!" the former Phantom of the Opera Populaire took the stage, shaking Signor Donato's hand before bowing to the audience. It was as he straightened back up and moved to Christine's side that Raoul realized he was not wearing his mask—and the crowd was not recoiling in horror. He watched as Christine slid her arm around her husband's waist possessively. The Phantom—no, he reminded himself, it was Angel now—bent his head down as his wife whispered something in his ear that brought a wide smile to his face. 

The woman at Raoul's side squeezed his arm. "Feeling a last pang of jealousy, my love?" 

He met her cool, blue gaze with his own. "Strangely, I am not. I am quite happy for them, and that is something I never thought I would feel." He laid his left hand over hers where it rested on his sleeve. "Let us go congratulate them." 

It took nearly ten minutes for them to work their way through the crowd surrounding the opera's stars. Raoul waited patiently until Christine was through speaking in what sounded to him like perfect Italian to an older couple. As they walked away, she shifted her attention to the new arrivals. "Raoul!" she gasped, her expression uncertain, her hand reaching behind her for her husband's arm. 

Angel turned round at her touch, his gaze hardening at the sight of Raoul. "Vicomte," he hissed between clenched teeth. "What an unexpected surprise. I thought we had an agreement."

Deciding an answer to that statement would only make the situation more uncomfortable, Raoul drew his bride forward. "Monsieur Noir, Christine, may I introduce you to my wife, Baroness Sabrina de Montenant. Darling, Angel and Christine Noir." 

Angel raised an eyebrow but took Sabrina's proffered hand and kissed the air above her gloved fingers. He did not offer to shake Raoul's hand, nor did Christine extend hers toward Raoul. There was an awkward silence that seemed destined to stretch into eternity. 

Sabrina, bless her, simply ignored it and plunged into conversation. "Beautiful, beautiful piece of work, Monsieur Noir. I have never experienced anything like it." 

"Thank you, Madame," Angel replied gruffly. 

"And Madame Noir—"

"Please," Christine interrupted, "call me Christine, and my husband is Angel. I think we know each other well enough to dispense with formal titles. Don't we, my Angel?" Her hand went to the small of her husband's back, and Raoul could see some of the tension drain out of him at her touch. He nodded curtly. 

"Very well. Christine, you have a lovely voice," Sabrina continued. "And such wonderful, daring taste in gowns. Do you mind telling me who designed your dress?" 

A sly smile crossed Christine's face. "My Angel is a man of many talents." 

"So it appears." 

Sabrina would have gone on, but Angel jumped into the conversation. "So what brings you to Venice, Vicomte?" 

Pleased that the prospect of fisticuffs seemed to have vanished, Raoul answered, "Our honeymoon. We're doing the Italian tour. It was just coincidence that our stay in Venice coincided with the opening of your opera. I trust you are finding Venice to your liking?"

Christine fairly beamed. "Very much so. I think this is the happiest I've ever been in my life." 

"And you, Angel?" Sabrina asked. "Are you enjoying Italy?" 

He looked a bit startled by the question, but answered, "It is a vast improvement over my previous life in Paris." 

Raoul felt a smirk tug at his lips. Had the Phantom just made a joke?

Angel looked down at Christine and it appeared to Raoul that some kind of silent message passed between them. When Christine looked back at them, she said, "As pleasant as it has been to see you again, Raoul, and to meet your lovely wife, I am afraid we are obligated to greet the rest of the guests. I'm glad you enjoyed yourselves tonight, and I wish you all the best in your new life together." 

"As do I," Angel added, not a hint of malice in his voice. Slipping his arm around Christine, he led her off through the crowd. 

Raoul watched them go, sensing the part of his life he had shared with Christine was over now. Surprisingly, he felt no regret. Christine and her Angel were meant to be together, he could see that now that he had found his own soulmate. He gazed at his wife, feeling a warm surge of love for her. "I'm suddenly finding all this very tiresome. Shall we go back to the hotel?"

Sabrina's eyes lit up. "And make beautiful music together? What a splendid idea." 

He had to walk quite briskly to keep up with her as she headed for the exit.

* * *

Christine opened the doors to the balcony and stepped out into the humid September night. Walking over to the railing, she leaned against it and looked out over the Grand Canal toward the sea, her thoughts whirling. 

It had been very strange to see Raoul again. And married! A smile crossed her face and she shook her head. Why was she so surprised at that? He had been so eager to marry her, why wouldn't he have moved on to someone else? She supposed she had believed he would never get over her, that he would be a lonely bachelor the rest of his life, pining away for his Christine. 

Truth be told, Christine hadn't had one thought of Raoul since she and her Angel had come to Venice. There had been the trip there, and moving in, and starting work at the opera house. It seemed like weeks before they had time to do anything besides get up in the morning, go to work, and fall into bed at night. But now that the new season was upon them things had settled into a less hectic routine. Her husband was nothing if not organized, and the theater was running like a well-oiled machine. 

Her husband. It still gave her a thrill every time she thought of it. Angel was hers and she was his and no one and nothing would ever come between them. It had been hard at first for him, making the adjustment from a life in the shadows to one in the light. He had alternately been withdrawn and overbearing with both her and the members of the opera company. At last Angel had come to realize that Christine was there to stay, that his moments of darkness seemed to make her only love him more. When he finally felt secure with her, he was able to relax and create at work. He was comfortable enough now that he rarely wore his mask, and his towering rages were a thing of the past. It helped that he had an outlet for his creativity and, Christine thought, his anger had for so long been for the world that had rejected him. He lived in a world now that embraced him, and that made all the difference. 

Arms slid around her waist and Christine was pulled back against the solid body of her Angel. He planted a kiss in her hair. "I woke up and was all alone," he said. "What are you doing out here?"

She laid her arms over his where they rested on her stomach. "Too much excitement tonight, I guess. I couldn't sleep." 

She felt him tense. "Thinking about Raoul?" he finally asked. 

"Among other things. Mostly I've been thinking about us, about how fortunate we are to be here and to have each other." Turning around in his arms, she put her hand on the back of his neck, bending him down for a kiss. He shivered when they broke apart, and she rested her hands on his bare chest, her fingers lightly stroking his smooth skin. "I love you, Angel," she whispered. 

He smiled down at her. "And I love you. Now come to bed." Letting go of her, Angel took a step toward the open door to their room. 

"I'm not sleepy," Christine complained. 

Angel turned toward her. "I don't recall mentioning anything about sleeping," he said with a seductive smile. 

Now it was Christine's turn to shiver. Angel held out his hand to her and she was suddenly back in her dressing room at the Opera Populaire, standing in front of the open mirror as the most beautiful man she had ever seen offered her his hand. She took it now, as she had then, and followed her heart without looking back.

 

**Finis**


End file.
